The Coalminer's wife
by Rosywonder
Summary: A scientific colleague from Illya's past returns to wreak revenge, and to enable THRUSH to complete the ultimate infiltration of UNCLE New York. Will our dynamic duo overcome evil and pursue the loves of their lives?


THE COAL MINER'S WIFE

By Rosemary Raine

Chapter 1

January

It was to be the worst and best year of Illya Kuryakin's life, although he had no idea of it when his eyes had opened that bright January morning. He had closed them again, turned onto his back, and concentrated on savouring simple sensual pleasures – the roughness of the sheets on his bare skin, the sounds and smells of the street below.

The Village was getting going, and knowing it as he now did, it gave him a sense of security and belonging in an otherwise insecure world. With a very deep sigh, Illya rolled over and stood up on the wooden floor of his bedroom, pushing the hair from his face absent-mindedly. He walked slowly to the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror as the water gushed into the sink. Blue eyes – Connie in reception had called them 'oceanic' – looked critically out from the sheaf of corn coloured hair which fell heavily across his forehead.

'Must do something about it' he muttered as he pushed it back in order to start shaving, but knew he didn't really want to. He liked looking the way he did; felt comfortable with himself; and living in the Village reinforced this feeling.

David Miller, who had been brought in before Christmas to 'handle administration' as Waverly had put it, had called him a 'beatnik' the other day. Miller seemed to have his nose in everything, with Waverly's permission it seemed, and being called a 'beatnik' was quite polite on the scale of insults he usually directed towards the Russian. Illya grinned; this morning that name felt alright, mellow almost.

He finished shaving and turned towards the shower, grimacing slightly at the thought of what was coming later; an unpleasant physical examination performed by that bumbling buffoon Dr Peter McDonald. As the water flowed over his head, he scrubbed at himself vigorously, as if doing this might somehow prepare him for whatever he was to endure at the doctor's hands. Stepping carefully out of the shower, he blindly grabbed for the towel, wound it round his slippery body and padded along towards the kitchen. He pulled open the fridge and poured a large glass of juice from the carton stuffed into the door, then with the drink, wandered towards the large windows in the living room which gave him a clear view of the street.

When he had bought the apartment four years ago, it had seemed like an undertaking that came dangerously near to the 'settling down' he heard other, older colleagues talking about, and which he could not imagine himself ever wanting. Why otherwise had he joined U.N.C.L.E.? He had to admit that it was on the large side for one person, although Napoleon's apartment had about the same number of rooms, and far more furniture, ornaments, luxury. But when he was home, with its beautiful wooden floors and high ceilings, its sense of space and order, the elegant windows looking out onto the street at the front, and onto the rather Mediterranean looking garden of the apartment below at the back, then it seemed that he could justify having it, having somewhere of his own.

Illya enjoyed being alone, but having this apartment sometimes caused him to reflect on his lack of family. The village was a vibrant community, life affirming, even. The school opposite the house, when occasionally he was home early, or left for work later, seemed to him like a giant sea creature, absorbing the vast number of children who rushed towards it, only to spew them out again onto the street at the end of the day. They emerged, laughing and shouting, looking excitedly for their parents, gradually fading away to apartments and homes where he imagined family life being lived with warmth and contentment.

He thought of his own family; his father whom he could only remember from faded photographs and sad, crumpled letters. 'A hero of the people's struggle against fascism' was how they had described him to Illya at school, but that didn't make it right, bring him back. His mother – was it five years since they had last met? A hasty meeting in a Cambridge tea room, Illya trying to answer her questions, give her something to hold on to. She had been allowed to visit for an international paediatric symposium, and had somehow got a message to him. She talked excitedly about how soon it would be to his return home, what they would do, how he would find the University a better place than when he had left it to study at Cambridge.

Illya couldn't bring himself to tell her that his future had already been committed in the opposite direction, to a different sort of life, and she left, with him feeling shamefaced and sad that he couldn't tell her what he wanted to. To this day, despite a steady but infrequent correspondence, she imagined him to be a dedicated scientist in some New York University Physics laboratory somewhere; a lab rat, endlessly turning his treadmill, discovering things. They were separated now, by time, by the political ideologies of others, and the barriers and restrictions that they spawned. He stared out of the window, seeing her now in his mind; so like him in so many ways, yet calmer, softer. He imagined her in her lab or the hospital ward in Kiev. What child's hand was being held by hers, what healing was taking place, while this child of hers was so far from her touch – and she wasn't even aware of what he did. He looked down at the street. Perhaps that was as well.

Out of the corner of his eye he became aware of someone below him on the street. A girl, with a guitar slung loosely across her back, walking along, her jaw slightly stuck out and her head looking from side to side, as if there was something exciting to see wherever she looked. She was slightly built, with long, slender legs, but it was her hair that first caught his attention – a rich chocolate brown with astonishing threads running through it of a deep copper colour, like a seam of rich ore in the living hair. It was very long, and caught up in a thick pony tail which bounced along behind her as if it had a life of its own. Without really being aware of doing so, Illya pulled open the window and craned his neck out to look more closely at her, at the precise moment she crossed the street, turned and met his gaze.

Her skin reminded him of girls he had met on Mediterranean islands, but it was her eyes that held him – almond shaped, an electric shade of hazel, although that seemed like a contradiction to him, as if brown couldn't be that exciting. Her gaze seemed to take him in fully, and then she smiled and was gone round the corner. He spun round and leaned back on the cool frame of the window and took a breath, his brow furrowed, trying to make sense of the moment, of her.

The insistent ringing of the door bell shut out any further reflection. On the tiny television screen by the wall phone, a familiar face appeared, the regular features framed, almost forced into the shape of the monitor.

'Well, hi there, remember me?'

'How can I forget you, Napoleon, since you're always there by my side' sighed the Russian agent.

'Don't be like that now' came the hurt reply. 'It's kinda cold out here, so if you don't mind . . . .'

'Oh, I'm sorry'. Illya released the ground floor door and heard the familiar footsteps taking the stairs two at a time. He would almost certainly be complaining about old houses with no lifts for the umpteenth time, thought Illya to himself with a smile. And, in the back of his mind, the girl and her ponytail still swung round his thoughts. He began to wander back to his bedroom as his partner and closest friend reached his apartment door and swung it open and shut behind him, with a loud bang.

Napoleon bounded along the corridor behind his friend, finding him in his bedroom rooting through drawers containing an assortment of creased looking t-shirts, socks and underwear, his naked back towards Solo.

'You're a little on the slow side this morning, comrade' said Napoleon, glancing at the gyrating figure of Illya as he pushed his head through a white shirt. 'Not looking forward to the gentle touch of our estimable Dr McDonald?'

A black sock flew his way which he successfully ducked.

'No, Napoleon, I am not looking forward to that, as you well know, but I will face it with the stoicism that you are constantly reminding me I possess in abundance'.

Illya turned round, his lips pressed together in the tight line Napoleon knew signified the beginnings of the Russian's icy acceptance of situations he disliked intensely but would endure. Napoleon swung open Illya's wardrobe.

'Now, what will it be, black suit, or black suit?'

Illya grabbed the suit with a withering look at his friend. Solo looked with affection at his friend. He had long since given up trying to influence him on sartorial elegance – the clothes, so reserved like their owner, the hair, so impossibly wild at times, but would he want him any different? He sometimes worried that he looked like that because there was no-one in his life, no-one to take trouble for. He looked up to see Illya looking at him quizzically.

'Napoleon, did you pass by a rather unusual, well not unusual, more like sensational, girl on the street this morning?'

Napoleon was completely taken aback by this remark. So un-Illya he thought.

'Illya, there are many girls out there who you might describe as sensational, but – could you give me a few clues?'

Illya sat down on the bed, and Napoleon noticed that he was looking slightly awkward.

'Um, very long hair, pony tail, ..

'amazing colour, gorgeous eyes, nice figure' Napoleon continued, trying hard not to smirk.

'You know her!' exclaimed Illya, running his hand through his hair in amazement, and in slight disappointment.

'Don't start getting tetchy, she's not my type' said Napoleon. 'Yes, I've talked to her, and so should have you if you'd spend a little more time here, and a little less time messing around with things in that lab'.

Illya stared fixedly at him. 'Napoleon I am waiting. How do you know her, and what do you know about her?'

Illya, that girl is your neighbour. She lives down there' and he pointed at the floor.

Solo had literally run into her one day when he had been late for a breakfast meeting with Illya. As he ran distractedly along the street, he collided with her. She was carrying a large metal suitcase which she clung onto despite the fact that she was in danger of hurting herself.

He had apologised profusely while at the same time revelling in her astonishing beauty. She had told him that the suitcase contained her life - her cameras; that she lived here, and was a freelance photographer; that she loved her life, and her job. Her name was Thérèse McCaffery, and the English accent had given away her origins, although her appearance seemed to contradict that. He had escorted her to the door, mildly amused that his partner had managed to find an apartment in the same building as this beauty. However, Illya never mentioned her, and so he had not bothered to tell him about the meeting.

Illya leaned back and started to put on his shoes. 'Why is it that whenever something like this happens, I always have to be somewhere else?' he complained.

'Well, if it's any comfort, Napoleon said, leaning against the doorframe, she told me that she was going away on a shoot, and wouldn't be back for a week or so. Perhaps you two can get it together now she's back in town?'. Napoleon stared closely at the man sitting on the bed. He seemed to want to know more, be almost desperate for knowledge of her; so unusual for the reserved, even 'buttoned-up' Kuryakin, as some at work had called him.

'You know she's English don't you, even though she doesn't look it? If you'd have bothered to talk to her, you would have recognised the accent'.

'What accent?'

Solo smiled. 'Well, oh speaker of a thousand languages, she's from Liverpool – now there's a challenge for you'. Illya lay back on the bed with his hands behind his head. 'Well actually, I don't speak scouse fluently, although I have learned a few phrases'.

'Scouse?'

'Yes, Napoleon, from the word 'Lob Scouse', a dish eaten by Lancashire workmen, consisting of meat and vegetables. A very interesting accent with some truly amazing expressions'. Napoleon just stared. How did he know all this stuff, he thought. 'Anyway' said Illya, I would have thought you would have known at least one chat-up line to help you on your way with any girls from Liverpool you may meet in some club or other'.

'And I suppose you're going to tell me', said Solo. Illya sat up, with a superior look on his face.

'Well, I haven't tried this myself, you will understand, but I am reliably informed that once you have selected said girl on the dance floor, you say 'You dancin' – he said this in a very passable accent, amazingly, – 'and she says 'You askin'?, and, Napoleon, that is that'.

Napoleon sighed. It didn't sound very sophisticated, and he couldn't see the girl downstairs responding to it, but you never knew.

Illya buttoned up his winter coat as they left the apartment, picking up a large briefcase of papers and a soft fur hat with earflaps that he rammed onto his head, almost hiding the hair, which stuck out beguilingly round the edge. Napoleon raised his eyebrows and charged down the stairs behind the rapidly disappearing Russian, only to hear a sharply indrawn breath and a very English sounding 'hello', coming from the front door. He held back slightly, leaning over the stairs to see his friend finally coming face to face with the girl they had just been talking about. '_Illya, don't blow this'_ he thought to himself.

After a decent interval, he slowly ambled down the rest of the stairs. He caught sight of her standing there, two large bags of shopping on the floor by her side.

'So you'll call?' Napoleon heard her say, but couldn't catch the deeper voice that replied. Illya's back was towards him, but he could see her face looking into his. Astonishingly, if he hadn't known that this was their first meeting, he could have sworn by their body language that they were lovers. Illya seemed to be bending towards her almost in a protective gesture, she gazing at him, her eyes completely absorbed in his face, unaware of Napoleon or anything else around her. Then suddenly the spell was broken and she had disappeared into her apartment, leaving Illya alone.

They walked quickly down the pavement towards Bleecker St where the cabs usually streamed along, in an incessant line uptown. Illya strode along, looking down, his face hidden by the fur hat. Finally, in desperation, Solo grabbed him and swung him round.

'Well?, he demanded.

'Well what?' replied Illya, his face impassive under the frame of fur.

'Did you make a date?'

'Oh that'. Then a faint smile lit up his face. 'You askin?' Then, 'Yes, we made a date'.

xxxxxxx

Later, Illya sat, swinging his legs like a little boy on the bed in the examination room in the medical section. He could hear McDonald fussing around in the office adjoining the room, talking to himself in a jovial kind of way, although Illya couldn't think what he had to be so happy about. Perhaps it was because he was soon to retire, and had told anybody who cared to listen, and many who did not, of his plans to return to his native Scotland and spend his days fly fishing or on the golf course.

'Of course, you know we invented the game' he bawled through the door. Not listening, Illya filled in the time with making a mental list of the things he hated doing most, beginning with medical examinations like this one. He had made a study of trying to avoid them, but since Miller came into Section 2, the procedures for signing off agents as fit for active duty had become rigid, especially with regard to one agent Kuryakin, or so it felt to Illya. He had already added to his list buying clothes for himself (about third or fourth); shopping (unless it was for records) and getting a haircut (at least second), when he noticed that McDonald had stopped singing some awful Scottish song, and was standing silently in front of him.

Illya looked up expectantly. He felt OK, a little thin perhaps, and he had seemed to be using the bathroom rather a lot lately, but perhaps that was down to the endless cups of coffee that Miller seemed to be offering him every time he dragged him into his office, which was often. Napoleon had remarked that Miller must have taken a shine to Illya, but Napoleon didn't know what Miller said. There was no point in complaining, it just served to encourage the others into thinking he was paranoid about the man. But there was something deeply wrong about him, deeply wrong.

'Mr Kuryakin, I want to talk to you before we do anything else'.

Both parts of that sentence worried Illya. He didn't like the sound of what might happen next, but what did McDonald have to say to him? The doctor was peering at some papers on his desk. He pushed them aside, then looked up.

' Och now, I have some blood and urine tests here for you. I must admit they are a little puzzling. 'Tell me, Illya' (that worried him, he was calling him by his first name now), 'do you have any history of diabetes or pancreatic problems in your family?'

Illya's mouth came open slightly and his eyes narrowed in perplexity.

'Sorry, doctor, what exactly do you mean? Is my blood sugar abnormal?'

Not exactly Mr Kuryakin, but your urine is showing a secretion of thiamine – that is vitamin B12 ..'

'I know what thiamine is, Doctor' said Illya rather sharply, anxiety making his voice seem unnaturally hard.

'Yes, well, an excretion rate this high usually points to, I am afraid, incipient Diabetes Mellitus, so we will have to think very carefully about what we are going to do to monitor this situation, and what I am going to say to Alexander'.

The last part of that sentence filled Illya with a feeling of near nausea. Only that morning, just after he had arrived with Napoleon, Waverly had shown him some pictures which had filled him with the certainty that he now had the opportunity to complete something which should have been finished a long time ago. Now, this news could completely throw into disarray not only his mission, but also his career, indeed his whole life.

As if McDonald could read his thoughts, the doctor went on in a kindly voice 'Look, I don't have to tell you what this might mean, but for now at least, if you agree to let me give you an injection and some tablets, we might at least be able to keep this thing at bay until I can investigate further, and I will sign you off, at least for now'

Illya breathed out, a deep sigh. 'Thank you doctor' he said quietly, and without waiting to be told, turned round, and lay silently on the bed. McDonald looked at the still body of the agent on the bed, his strong muscular form in strange contrast to the vestigial hospital gown covering his torso. The lack of complaint, the silent body spoke of acceptance and endurance of anything that would enable him to continue in the profession he loved. McDonald turned sadly, and drew up the injection.

CHAPTER 2

January

East Berlin

The cruel wind blasted through the leaden streets, sweeping up fallen, long dead leaves and litter, and depositing them in rough, seething heaps. Piles of rubble still stood in places as sad monuments to a once great city, now two; spectacularly different to each other, reflections of extremes of lifestyle and belief. What had been churches - baroque, grandiose statements of belief, now lay in crippled ruins. Beyond them, modern blocks of faceless concrete signalled a new era had begun.

The subterranean inhabitants of the 'medical facility' deep in the bowels of the infamous STASI prison of Hohenschönhausen had no worries or concerns about the landscape outside. It was unlikely that any of the 'subjects' as they were labelled, in this evil counterpart of a place of healing, would be aware of the seasons again, or of how the city might change. For them, pain was the landscape through which they stumbled, their surroundings a dark mixture of cruelty and humiliation.

Men and women had been brought to this place, the victims of the suffocating system of informants that the East German Secret police used to control this society. They now faced a more terrifying ordeal. The fate of a laboratory animal, caged, disorientated, waiting for certain suffering, and finally death. The hospital complex was more like a factory production line, than a place of healing.

First, an intra-venous cocktail of drugs to subdue and control mind and body, while faceless technicians silently observed and took notes. Then, the gradual destruction of memory – a endless nightmare of droning voices cancelling out the past. And then, the final humiliation – a slow, sad death. And after death, the only evidence of a human life; that of cells lying between glass under a microscope.

A steel door was opened from the small laboratory to admit two men. The smaller of the two, Phineas Schleicher, head of THRUSH East Germany, glanced round at the backs of the technicians, and then, with barely concealed contempt, at the helpless victims in the adjoining ward. He rubbed his hands together frequently, smiling and nodding at the apparent efficiency which he saw around him. However, like the technicians, he seemed unwilling to look at his colleague, preferring to steal a sidelong glance at the gaunt figure leaning over the laboratory bench near where they stood.

'The facilities that our STASI friends have provided, they are acceptable, Herr Dr Fetting?' Schleicher enquired haltingly.

'Yes' the grating voice replied, 'acceptable'.

Schleicher fought hard to swallow a look of repulsion as Fetting turned fully towards him. The whole of one side of the doctor's face was severely burnt, resembling red molten candle wax, which had tightened the skin on the unaffected side of his face into a hideous white mask. The result was a grotesque contrast of colour and texture through which one eye glinted, the other just a knife slit in the red morass that had once been normal skin.

As they walked along the laboratory benches, Schleicher was aware of the stiffening of backs and then of the loosening of taut muscles as he moved away from the technicians' bent, white forms.

'I…I don't think we need to visit the ward, Herr Doktor; I'm quite satisfied with the arrangements'.

'What, Herr Schleicher, don't you have the stomach to examine the latest results of our little tests on these specimens?'. Fetting's remaining eye twitched, giving his ravaged face a look which made Schleicher shudder. Fetting turned on his heel and strode towards his small laboratory, Schleicher hurrying to keep in step. Inside the lab, he motioned to Schleicher to sit down on the uncomfortable seat drawn up one side of the large black desk which filled one side of the room. Fetting leaned against the laboratory bench filling the other side of the room, his unnatural face appearing to loom down at Schleicher.

Now, Herr Schleicher, I am most anxious to know if our little agreement is 'done and dusted' as the British would say?'

'Most certainly, Herr Doktor; THRUSH is more than willing to allow you to continue with your work in this laboratory until the results of our little experiment are complete, and then, of course, to re-locate you to our facility in Chile, in order to further develop our ultimate weapon against UNCLE !' he said, rubbing his hands manically.

'And our little Slav, are preparations for his 'homecoming' going apace?'

Schleicher drummed his fingers on the desk.

'Mr Kuryakin should have begun his treatment by now'; he hesitated, before adding, 'but I was wondering, Herr doktor, what was the point of administering this drug, with all the risks of discovery, purely to make Mr Kuryakin feel ill? After all, if he is to be the guinea pig for our experiment, surely he needs to be fit in body, even if he's not going to be in mind, as it were', and he let out a high-pitched laugh at his own humour, which was stifled by the look of utter contempt that Fetting gave him. He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. Fetting leapt to his feet, and in seconds had pulled Schleicher to his feet, his eye twitching madly.

'If your colleagues want the benefit of my years of work and sacrifice' he hissed, 'if they want to be able to send in a mole, a 'deep sleeper' as you call it, with his mind so hidden, so buried within him that he is literally unable, even after extreme torture to reveal his true identity, and then be 'activated' at your will, then, Herr director, you will do whatever is necessary to deliver to me Illya Nikovetch Kuryakin'.

Fetting walked away and looked down at the papers on his desk.

'Besides, my dear Schleicher, he will come anyway. The treatment programme I devised for our dear comrade is purely to start him off on, shall we say, the road to suffering which he will surely tread under my careful supervision. He will be profoundly depressed by his 'illness', temporarily created by the drug Miller has so carefully 'drip-fed' him in all those endless cups of coffee he will insist on drinking in his beloved 'Section 2'. A fleeting smile passing across Fetting's destroyed face , 'It will cause Kuryakin as much suffering as possible, without, of course, preventing him from fulfilling his ultimate destiny. The real '_sleeper'_ will be free to continue his work. Then, after Mr Kuryakin has been eliminated, and poor Mr Solo is so distraught on losing his boyfriend that he cannot operate at his usual efficiency, it will be simple for 'activation' to take place. But for now, our '_untermensch_' will bravely struggle on, because he does not want them to bury him in a lab somewhere. He will use all available means to track me down, and you will help him to do that'.

Schleicher stared at the grotesque profile of the Nazi pharmacist, which the light from his desk lamp threw into hideous relief onto the wall behind him.

'Permit me, Herr Doktor, to enquire then, why are you so absolutely sure Kuryakin will come?

Fetting spun round.

'You see this?' he said, pointing at his face, 'he is as responsible for this as if he held my head in the flames himself. That _Russisch schwein_ betrayed me to the Jews when I had worked so hard to build up my research, my reputation in England. I was on the verge of making ground-breaking discoveries in the treatment of mental illness, aided, my dear Schleicher, by our helpful Jewish friends in Dachau. When I heard that they knew my identity, I decided to destroy myself and my laboratory, rather than let them get their filthy hands on me and humiliate me in front of their so called Jewish court. But no, that Russian fool has to pull me out of the flames to face their justice . It is his weakness, you know, that sense of justice that he has, of wanting to bring me finally to face my 'crimes'. And it will be his undoing too. Then it will be Mr Kuryakin's life that is destroyed, slowly, bit by bit; and I will enjoy every moment of it.'

CHAPTER 3

February

The UNCLE commissary was unusually busy even for a weekday lunchtime, but Napoleon managed to get a table for four by paying particular attention to the waitress who was clearing the tables.

'I say, old man, how do you do it?' laughed the Indian section two agent who Solo had spent the morning briefing in his office.

'Vaz, you may have an English Public school education, but when it comes to smooth talking, I'm afraid Napoleon holds a doctorate, summa cum laude' added Calvert Hannsson, Vaz's partner. The wiry Indian jumped to his feet when the waitress arrived to take their order, kissing her hand and calling her 'dear lady', much to her horror, and the amusement of the two Americans by his side.

'By the way, where's Illya? Hannsson said, staring at the menu, 'we need to clear a large space on the table for his order.'

Napoleon looked down. The other agents glanced at each other momentarily, perturbed by his sudden silence. Before he could reply, the object of their question stood before them. Hannsson let out a strangled gasp and Fernandes' normally jolly expression changed to one of consternation.

Napoleon could hardly believe that it was only three weeks since they had left Illya's apartment after meeting the girl; Illya so animated, and he could see in his mind the face of his friend as they walked along that morning, a wicked smile emanating from under the fur hat, his wayward hair framing the familiar face.

Now the same face was looking at him, but changed; gaunt, tired looking. The Russian agent had never been large, but now he looked as if he was suffering from a wasting disease of some sort. His clothes were beginning to hang on his frame, and the bones of his face stuck out in sharp relief to the tight skin that covered them. Strangely, however, he was carrying an enormous tray of food, with an exceptionally large glass of water balanced precariously at the edge.

'I couldn't wait to be served, so I just collected it myself' he explained, sitting down and immediately gulping the water down as if he was going to die of thirst at any moment. The other three looked on with a mixture of shock and amazement as Kuryakin proceeded to stuff the food down as if his life depended on it.

'Steady on, old boy' warned Vaz, 'you'll get a jippy tummy if you eat that fast'.

'Vaz' said Illya, looking up momentarily, 'my stomach will be fine, thank you.' The waitress had appeared at the table to clear away. Illya picked up his glass and politely asked her for a refill, his hand slightly shaking as he gave it to her.

'Excuse me for a minute, gentlemen, I need to use the bathroom' he said suddenly, getting up from the table and walking quickly away.

'Gee, I'm not surprised!' whispered Cal Hannsson, 'he's drunk about four pints of water already!'

Napoleon watched the slender frame of his partner head for the rest room. He got up and made his excuses to the others, before heading after Illya, who had disappeared round the corner. When he found him, luckily he was standing alone, slightly slumped against the wall of the room. Napoleon shut the door quietly, putting the 'out of order' sign on to prevent any unnecessary interruptions. There was something terribly wrong with his closest friend, and he, Napoleon Solo, was going to find out, or die trying.

'Illya' he said quietly, putting his hand on his shoulder, 'what is wrong?'

The blond head turned slowly and faced him.

'I do not know'.

'Have you been to the doctor?'

'It started after I went to the doctor, or so it appears'.

'What, when you went to see McDonald?'

'Precisely' Illya replied, looking at Solo with a resigned air. 'He told me I had some sort of problem with my pancreas, and that I had to have a shot and a course of tablets. Normally, I would have refused, but it is obvious that I am not quite as I should be, and besides which, he told me that unless I agreed to it, he wouldn't sign me off'.

'Illya, there are other doctors up there. Why don't you get a second opinion, for God's sake?'

'Because he is probably right. The symptoms I have, Napoleon, only point to one thing. And if that is so, then that, I fear, means one thing only, and I think you know what that is'.

'Oh, so you're a doctor of medicine too now?' Napoleon said acidly, looking straight at his partner and friend. 'You don't know any such thing!', then he added, seeing Illya's pained expression 'I presume you are talking about diabetes. There's a simple test for that,and besides . . .'

'Besides nothing,Napoleon. He did the test. If I take the tablets, then I might get better, I mean it might not get any worse – I don't know', he leaned back wearily on the wall, 'I will do anything, Napoleon, if I can continue working, and preferably, feel a whole lot better than I'm feeling at the moment. I don't have any choice, that's what he said. If I don't try this treatment, then he will recommend that I am transferred to Section 3, and our partnership is over'.

Napoleon felt his partner begin to sag visibly before him as he talked. Illya's pallor, which was never that dark, seemed paler than usual, and his skin appeared almost translucent.

'I am taking you to medical now, Solo said quietly, 'please don't argue, Illya, you are sick. I cannot believe that this is the only solution'.

'No, Napoleon, not now, not today. I have an assignment, I cannot be ill now; I have to do it – then you can do what you like with me' he replied, his words spoken in short gasps. With some inner reserve of strength that left Napoleon staring, Illya straightened himself and strode towards the door, and then walked quickly down the corridor towards Mr Waverly's office, Napoleon walking behind him, half in amazement that he was walking, half expecting him to fall at any moment.

xxxxxxxxx

Alexander Waverly was staring out of his office window at the New York skyline, a steel grey reflection of the gathering storm clouds that threatened the day outside. He turned slowly at the sound of the door sliding open, revealing the familiar sight of the agents he knew so well. At the sight of the Russian, his eyes tightened slightly, and he glanced down at the report which lay on a small desk behind the larger circular conference desk which dominated the office.

'Ah gentlemen, please sit down. Mr Kuryakin, I have your medical report from Dr McDonald'.

Illya and Napoleon exchanged glances, Illya's hand gripping the table for a few seconds before he looked up impassively at Waverly.

'It appears that he has passed you fit for active duty, subject to completing the course of medication that he prescribed for you'.

'Sir'. Napoleon leapt to his feet. 'I'm not sure . . .' But Illya interrupted him before he could begin to express what he felt was ready to burst out of him.

'Dr McDonald assures me, sir, that I will be fine if I take the whole course of tablets, even though I may suffer some minor side-effects during the treatment.'

'_Minor_!' Napoleon growled, glancing at his partner. Illya ignored him. Napoleon switched his attention to Waverly, staring at him, willing his boss to see the absolute lie this statement was. Waverly ignored him, too. His attempt at mind control was interrupted by the thwack of a bundle of files hitting the circular table and the whirring of the screen door on the wall.

The screen behind Waverly's head was filled with one of the most disturbing faces Napoleon had seen in his long career. He noticed Illya look up and the blue eyes fill with, what was it, Napoleon thought, regret?

'In case you haven't managed to read the file, Mr Solo, this is Herr Doctor Gerhard Fetting, formerly of the SS, where he spent the last war experimenting on the hapless inmates of Dachau Concentration Camp, apparently trying to develop antipsychotic drugs. Dr Fetting managed to escape the Allied forces at the end of the war by hiding his identity, and eventually inveigled his way into a research position in the Department of Pharmacology at the University of Cambridge, no less.

Solo turned towards his partner.

'You knew him?'

'Different Department, Napoleon, but, yes, I knew him' Illya replied, adding nothing else to that rather bare statement. Waverly continued

'Dr Fetting came to the attention of agents working for Mossad, but unfortunately, he was able to escape from their custody before he could be taken back to Israel to be tried for war crimes. We think that our friends at THRUSH were involved in helping him to disappear, probably to South America'.

'And now he's appeared again?' Solo said.

'Yes, Mr Solo, in East Berlin. Our agents took this photograph of him last week. As you see, he is rather unmistakable, and he made no effort to hide his appearance, which in itself is odd. Mr Kuryakin has already studied the contents of this file, and has agreed to investigate further'.

As Napoleon looked up, the door swished back. Illya uttered a deep sigh as the tall figure of David Miller, swept into the room.

'Ah David, we were just discussing the case', Waverly said, 'I asked Mr Miller to join us, as he has expert knowledge of Germany in general, and the Nazis, or what remains of them, in particular'.

'_That's because he is a Nazi_ Napoleon muttered to himself. Miller could easily have passed for a member of the 'master race'. He strangely shared features with Illya – blue eyes and blond hair, but there the similarity ended. Physically, Miller was over six feet tall, extremely long-limbed with large hands and feet. His nearly white-blond hair was worn in a style which reminded Napoleon of his army days in Korea. Below the brutal military haircut, cold blue eyes stared, at this moment, at Napoleon's partner. It was well known that Miller disliked Kuryakin, and in subtle ways, constantly sought to undermine him, whether it was by criticising his homeland, the system of employing agents from what he considered 'enemy' states, or even Kuryakin's appearance and behaviour. He was careful how he did it, but Napoleon was convinced that Miller was behind some of the prejudice Illya had continued to suffer in the New York office recently. Napoleon thought he must be enjoying the obvious signs of distress and illness that Illya was exhibiting.

Solo's thoughts were interrupted by Miller's rather piercing voice. Why was it that everything he said sounded like an order?

'Kuryakin will go to West Berlin to liaise with our German office, then will continue into the East Sector to see if he can track down Fetting' he barked. Solo will go to Cambridge to speak to Professor Geoffrey Leonard about Fetting's research in the 50's. We may then understand better, exactly what he is up to in Berlin'.

'Excuse me, sir' said Napoleon, ignoring Miller, 'are you really going to allow Illya to go into the East sector . .' he wanted to say 'in his condition', but bit back on the last part.

'I am, Mr Solo. Mr Kuryakin speaks excellent German and has been behind the iron curtain before, since he left the Soviet Union, as you well know'.

'Wouldn't it be better if Illya went to Cambridge, particularly as he knows these guys at the University, and I go to East Berlin?' Solo replied, looking directly at Waverly. Napoleon was amazed that Waverly had chosen to send Illya back into an Eastern bloc country, and even more peculiar, to send him to interview a scientist, when Illya was so much better equipped to understand Fetting's research interests. But before he could respond, Miller stood up suddenly and almost shouted,

'No! It must be Kuryakin!' He corrected himself very quickly and added,

'Alexander, we agreed on this – Kuryakin would be better equipped to understand what is going on in any hidden laboratory, if indeed there is one, and also to make sure nothing remains of it if necessary'.

There was a slight hiatus in the room, before the person who had said nothing for some time, spoke.

'I will go to East Berlin, Sir. Give my regards to Professor Leonard'. Illya rose stiffly to his feet. As they were leaving the room, Miller followed them into the outer office of Waverly's suite.

'Well, Kuryakin, at least your habit of dressing down will help you to fit in with your comrades in the East', Miller said in a very low voice, but loud enough for Napoleon to just catch, 'You can even get yourself a haircut at a fraction of the price in the West – but of course your type don't care about outward appearance, do you?'

'And what type is that exactly' Illya said wearily.

'Gentlemen', Waverly interposed, coming into the room, 'shall we get on? I doubt that Dr Fetting will be hanging about the streets waiting for us to collect him. Contact me as soon as you find out anything of value, Mr Kuryakin. Mr Solo no doubt will contact you as soon as he has learned anything of interest in Cambridge'

'You bet he will' thought Napoleon, following his partner out of the door.

CHAPTER FOUR

March

Illya's head sank back gratefully onto the headrest of the aeroplane seat. The flight was heading into the night, but he knew that the dawn, an English dawn, would come very quickly as they crossed the dateline towards Europe. Napoleon sat next to him, ostensibly reading a scientific journal that Illya had lent him to help him understand something of Fetting's work at Cambridge, but Illya could see that he was glancing furtively at him with a 'worried grandmother' look on his face – an expression Illya usually used when Napoleon fussed too much after he had sustained some injury or other on a mission.

However this time, he thought, he could do with someone to look after him. He thought of the girl Thérèse. Would he see her again? She seemed genuinely delighted when he'd asked her if she wanted to go out with him somewhere, and had given him her telephone number, writing it on his hand with a biro she'd fished out of a large tote bag she had slung across her shoulder. In a brief moment of what felt like a mixture of panic and uncertainty, he had asked her if she was sure, and she'd put her hand on his arm and whispered 'quite sure' in a way that sent strange, excited feelings coursing through him, feelings that he had forgotten, or had at least tried to forget since joining U.N.C.L.E.

He wondered if she'd be quite as keen if she could see him now. He had made up his mind that afternoon that he would not take any more of the wretched tablets when this course was finished, which judging by the bottle, was today. If he was diabetic, he had to come to terms with it. He needn't leave UNCLE; he knew that his time in Section 2 wouldn't last forever anyway. But to end his partnership with Napoleon? He wondered whether he could bear to work in the same building, seeing him with another partner; meeting, he supposed for meals and social occasions, but never experiencing the closeness of working together where their very lives were dependent upon the skill, intelligence and intuition of the other man. He could hardly bear to look at him. Could he find an equally committed but different relationship with another? Perhaps with her? The thoughts whirled round his head until he felt dizzy with them.

He forced them down inside himself by making himself focus on the coming mission. Fetting. The name made his heart suddenly speed up. He wondered at himself for not being able to share that particular story with Napoleon. It had been a therapeutic experience to be able to trust the American so much, so that he could share stories about his past with him, something he'd not felt able to do with his colleagues before, and certainly not with any girlfriend he'd ever dated. He knew that he was something of an enigma at UNCLE, and it suited him to remain that way. Now he wondered if being an enigma was just another word for being lonely.

Before he could utterly drown himself in these thoughts, as if he knew what was in the other one's mind, Napoleon said

'You know you don't have to do this. I could go to Berlin, and you could get checked out by some doctor you trust, and then go on to your alma mater at Cambridge'.

'Thank you Napoleon, but I do have to do this, and the sooner it's done, the sooner I can be 'checked out', as you so delicately put it, by yet another prodder and poker masquerading as a doctor.'

Illya turned his head tiredly towards Napoleon.

'Napoleon, I … '. He so wanted to tell him about Fetting, yet the memory of it clutched at him and held him back. Despite the pain, if he could summon the energy to see this mission through, then perhaps all would be resolved.

The image of the man's face on that night flashed before his weary eyes; he had been very young then, just a postgraduate research student helping out in the holidays. He had heard the explosion from the quad of the college, and had seen Fetting pinned up against the laboratory window screaming soundlessly, with the roaring fire behind him cutting out the screams of the human being held within it. He had run into the lab without any real thought or plan, but knowing its layout, had been able to feel his way to the inert form by the window and somehow drag him outside. He had known then about him, had worked it out for himself, but knowing it, knowing him to be what most people would call a monster, somehow had not been able to prevent him from pulling the man out.

Fetting had lived, but perhaps Illya thought subsequently, it had been better if he had died. He had only worked with Fetting as a favour that summer. Illya had had suspicions of the man, and had shared them with his supervisor. After the fire, he had gone to visit Fetting in hospital. He had lain swathed in bandages, hardly distinguishable from the sheets of the bed he lay in. Only one eye was visible, and part of the lower jaw and mouth. He seemed to want to tell Illya something and as the Russian came near to his head he turned and whispered,

'betrayal will cost you dear.'

He had jumped back in surprise, but the head had turned away. He had been unable to visit again, and shortly afterwards had heard that Fetting had disappeared. Illya was not sorry about the Israelis; he understood their need for justice, and in some ways had shared in it by rescuing Fetting. But he was not responsible for their involvement. Now he needed to finish what they had failed to do – to bring the man to justice for the crimes he had committed. No doubt Napoleon would work it out for himself when he talked to Professor Leonard; but by that time Illya hoped that he would have settled the debt he felt that he owed to those who had suffered so much at that man's hands. He didn't want Napoleon to prevent him from doing what was necessary, although he was certain that his dearest friend and partner would understand his reasons.

Napoleon had turned towards him, waiting for him to continue the sentence.

'I .. er.. expect you'll be checking up on me as soon as you've had a little chat with Professor Leonard'

'I still don't get this, Illya. I can't help thinking that this is just a ploy by Miller to separate us, and Waverley's falling for it. I'm sure you know as much about Fetting's research interests as anyone in Cambridge, and yet you're going into a highly dangerous situation on your own …' and he wanted to add 'and ill', but didn't dare refer to Illya's physical state again without the Russian giving him the benefit of one of his withering looks in return.

'If it bothers you so much, I can meet you back in West Berlin after I've figured out what exactly is being cooked up between Fetting and our feathered friends, and, Napoleon, you can carry on where you left off with the delightful duo of the Berlin office'

'Hmm' said Napoleon, smiling for the first time in a while. He'd forgotten, until Illya reminded him, of the very pleasant afternoon he had spent with Sabrina Klose, of the very long legs, very blonde hair and very athletic habits, and her partner, the irrepressible Katerina. He couldn't help thinking though, that Illya was using this as a diversionary tactic to keep from talking about what was really going on. He glanced back, only to see that Illya had closed his eyes and seemed to be deeply asleep. His face in repose seemed utterly drained, and Solo wondered where on earth he was getting the energy from to keep upright, never mind carry out a dangerous operation in a very unfriendly place.

He signalled to a stewardess who seemed only too eager to catch his eye. She obligingly provided him with a blanket, and Solo was sure she would have enjoyed tucking him in if he had asked. But the blanket wasn't for him. He gently pulled it over the sleeping form next to him, and lay back in his chair with a deep sigh. Illya was able to sleep anywhere, on anything, for as long as he was given, but tonight sleep evaded Napoleon. Instead, a dark, uncomfortable, sense of foreboding seemed to grip him as he gazed out of the window at the approaching day.

The flight to Berlin had been on time, and thankfully, Illya had been able to escape from Napoleon with promises of reporting regularly on his progress. With a sigh he walked quickly away from his friend. He felt Napoleon's eyes on his back as he headed for the departure lounge, and had to force down the feelings of fear and betrayal that were replaying in his mind like a broken record. Later, he could hardly remember that flight; the stewardess looked very concerned when he had asked for yet another glass of water, and he was worn down by the constant trips to the toilet. He felt as if his strength was being washed away in a great sea of water and urine.

The announcement of their imminent landing at Berlin made Illya glance down at the ground looming up at them as they plunged through the clouds. Illya had no memory of Berlin before the war in Europe, but he had seen films of its pre-war days and considered it to be a sad reflection of former glory.

The contrast between East and West was nowhere more extreme than in Berlin. And there was no more powerful image of the failure of men than the Berlin Wall itself. Yes, the _"antifaschistischer Schutzwall" _was a telling reminder to Illya of all he had left behind and all that he had embraced in leaving the East. Nonetheless he found the West sector depressing as well; as if it had to make up for the East by an excessive capitalism that he found uncomfortable. He wondered sometimes just where he fitted in, until he began to think of Grove Street, of Village life in New York, and, he suddenly realised, of Thérèse.

People like himself, who had left the East, had been labelled 'politically depraved' by the East German government; at the same time, Miller had once called him a 'dirty commie mole', but not in Waverley's hearing. Yet it was people like Napoleon, quintessentially American, who had made him appreciate his freedom and also understand the purpose of UNCLE and his part in it. Meeting Thérèse, another European like him, had somehow reminded him that it might be possible, perhaps to live happily in an adopted country. Could he make a life for himself with her? As a family, even? He smiled to himself. He didn't really know her, yet here he was, thinking of himself as some sort of Abraham like figure, 'father of many nations'. Father? With a deep sigh, he wondered whether that could ever be possible for someone like him.

The plane landed with several short jerks on the runway, presaging gloomy thoughts of what was to come in Illya's mind. As he ambled through the passport control into the arrivals lounge, his wandering mind was suddenly accosted by a husky voice in his ear whispering 'darling, such a long time since we were up close' and an arm thrust through his.

Sabina Klose. She was gorgeous, in a healthy, scrubbed sort of Germanic way, he thought. Very tall, she seemed to tower over him in her high heels. Her eyes were, like his, blue, but of the piercing kind, and her hair was almost white blond, which Illya only achieved after he'd spent the summer outside somewhere hot; rare for him. She propelled him through the exit doors towards the waiting car, and for once, he was just glad for her to take charge. When they'd finally settled themselves and were driving off into the traffic, she leaned towards him with a barely concealed look of concern on her face. Illya knew what was coming.

'Darling, what have you been doing with yourself? You look like you've been in a prison camp for six months! What has that naughty man been doing with you?!'

'I presume you mean Napoleon by that, and the answer, of course is nothing' he replied, raising his eyebrows and looking over his glasses, which he had taken to wearing recently to hide the dark rings which seemed to be gathering under his eyes.

'Don't give me that, Illyusha, you know I'll find out one way or another' she said, 'You know very well, I'll get it out of you eventually'.

'You should be working for THRUSH – they employ people like _you_ to make people like _me_ suffer. I'm sure you'd fit in very well' he replied with a wan smile. She was actually a very sweet girl, and he hadn't bothered to tell Napoleon that they had enjoyed some very pleasant evenings together comparing East and West, amongst other things. He liked to let Napoleon feel he was the master of seduction, and that way he kept his nose out of Illya's private life, at least a little. Mind you, he had done Illya a big favour over Thérèse . . .

'Now, I'm going to take you to the apartment, where I am going to let you have a little rest, only a little one mind, then I'm going to come back later, and take you to dinner. You need a big feed, German style' she said, smiling encouragingly at him. _If only it were that simple_, he thought.

'That is lovely, Sabi, but we will need to talk shop as well. I need to know what you know about our friend Herr Dr Fetting, and I need to make some plans for my little excursion into the East'.

'All in good time, _mein leibling. _We will fatten you up first, and then we'll talk about that nasty man'.

The apartment was a large traditional block in the German style, which UNCLE in Germany used as one of several safe houses, and Illya was glad to throw himself upon the soft feather-filled damask eiderdowns that they used instead of sheets and blankets in Germany. Sabrina had insisted on accompanying him into the bedroom 'to see if it was up to standard, darling', and as he lay on the bed, he could feel her taking off his shoes, and then sitting down by his head to talk to him, while she stroked his hair away from his face with long, tapering fingers.

'Illya, dear, I will come back for our little intimate get together at 1700 hours precisely, and you know how we Germans like to be precise' she said, running her finger along the edge of his jaw. 'I'll bring some papers about our friend, and you can make your clever plan to rid the world of him, or whatever. And then we can have some fun'.

'_Danke_, Sabi, as ever'.

She looked closely at him, as his eyelids fluttered shut. This was so unlike him, she thought. He seemed so different to normal, so vulnerable even. She gave him a very gentle kiss on the cheek, and crept quietly out of the room.

CHAPTER 5

March

The train from London pulled into Cambridge on time, dispensing an assorted crowd of students, academics, visitors to the city, and other very normal inhabitants of this small city set in the middle of the Fens, a strange, flat landscape of huge skies and scattered farmhouses.

Napoleon liked Cambridge; his knowledge of the city in part due to his partner. Illya had eventually been persuaded to talk about his days there, although, as it was always with him, it was a selective telling. Of course Napoleon was not desperately interested in the details of his PhD thesis, but rather in the politics of the University, the personalities that inhabited it, and of course, the girls. Illya knew full well that Solo's mind was much sharper than he sometimes appeared to let on, and that Solo's obsession with women, although genuine to a point, hid a mind which was highly observant and able to analyse both people and situations acutely.

St Luke's College, like many colleges at Cambridge, faced onto a main road. The large gateway with bell tower atop, gave way to a lush quad, where centuries seemed to slip away instantly, and the jarring noises of the street faded to a dull murmur. A group of students were approaching Solo from the buildings at the far end of the quad.

'Excuse me, ladies, I wondered if you could show me the way to Professor Leonard's rooms' he said, giving them his most engaging 'American lost in Cambridge' smile. One of the girls, who was called Amanda, volunteered, very willingly he thought, to show him the way.

'Are you visiting, or are you staying here a bit longer?' she asked, quite boldly.

'Well, Professor Leonard and I go back way back when, Amanda, to my days at Harvard' he replied, trying to sound a bit more like Illya. She seemed satisfied with his answer, and after scrambling up a very narrow and rather tortuous staircase at the corner of the quad, they arrived at the door of Professor Leonard's room. She hesitated for a moment.

'I'll leave you to it, Dr Solo' and disappeared down the staircase and out into the quad. He regretted momentarily not asking her out, but decided that he needed to focus on the task in hand. He had made an appointment for 2.30pm, but as he knocked, he was sure he could hear two voices in the room. He heard a friendly voice shout 'come in please' and he cautiously opened the door.

Before he could really take in the room and its occupants, his gaze was drawn to the back of what was obviously a woman's head.

'Well, _Guten Tag_, Napoleon, _Wie Gehts_?' said the head. Solo stood transfixed at the door. What on earth was Kateryna Tereshenko doing there? She stood up, smiling, well almost laughing at what must have been an amazed expression on his face.

The Professor said 'Oh do come in Mr Solo, Miss Tereshenko said you were old friends.'

'Yes sir, that's absolutely true, I....I just wasn't quite expecting to see her here' Solo replied, coming over to Kateryna and kissing her on the cheek.

As he drew near, she whispered 'I need to know what's going on Napoleon, particularly since it's in my back yard, so to speak, and particularly since it involves blondie'.

Napoleon hadn't heard Illya described in those terms for a long time, in fact it was a term that was only usually used between the four of them, that is himself, Kuryakin, Kateryna and Sabrina. Illya and Napoleon had spent a considerable time a couple of years previously on a mission together in the north of Germany. Kateryna and Sabrina were partners working out of the Berlin office, where they both still worked, although Kateryna was now head of that section. She was of Ukrainian origin, with short, reddish-brown wavy hair, and a broad face with a rather flattened nose. She was no great beauty, but she was one of those people who were tremendous to be with, and who seemed to get exactly what they wanted, whether one liked it or not.

Professor Leonard sat down in the armchair opposite the two UNCLE agents.

'Now before we begin about Fetting, do tell me how Dr Kuryakin is – you know, I worked very hard to keep him here, but he would go and join your organisation, Mr Solo. I suppose the world of academia just wasn't enough for him, although he was a damn good physicist, and would have been a first class Professor, eventually'. He sat back in the chair, his very penetrating gaze directed at Solo. He imagined nothing much got past this man; that he was a good judge of character.

'Well, Sir, Illya is in Germany at present trying to find out what has happened to Dr Fetting since he disappeared. I understand that you may be able to help us 'fill in the gaps' as it were, and perhaps help me to understand both what you think Fetting may be up to now, and also what the connection is between him and Illya, as I'm sure there is one, you see'.

Kateryna looked surprised at his last comment. She obviously had no idea what Napoleon was talking about.

'Well' said Professor Leonard, 'you are very astute Mr Solo, and I am not surprised he hasn't told you. He likes to play his cards close to his chest, doesn't he?'. He got up and looked out of the window.

'I can see why he wants to go after the man, to sort things out as it were, but you must stop him, Mr Solo, you must stop him, before that evil monster gets his hands on him'. Napoleon leaned forward, glancing at Kateryna, who was also looking rather confused.

'I'm sorry, sir, what exactly do you mean?' he said.

'Fetting thought that Dr Kuryakin had betrayed him to the Israelis, and was dragging him from the fire, simply to finish the job and prevent him from escaping justice, but that is only partially true. Dr Kuryakin had his suspicions of Fetting because he had made a fatal error in discussing his past with him. He had told Dr Kuryakin that he had been in the Ukraine on the Russian front during the Barbarossa campaign. But Dr Kuryakin knows that part of the world only too well – indeed his own father died in that brutal conflict – and he began to realise that the yarn Fetting was spinning was just a pack of lies. He came back here very upset and discussed it with me. I told him to do nothing for the time being, because I didn't want him to get involved with the man, being a young man, and a Russian as well. On the other hand, I had no hesitation in contacting the Jewish Centre in Vienna with the facts I had. The rest of the story is, as you know'. The reason I say you must stop him is the answer to your other question'.

The Professor walked away from the window, and came and sat very close to them, as if what he was about to say shouldn't be heard above a whisper.

'Fetting was working in the field of anti-psychotic drugs used to treat conditions like schizophrenia. How much do you know about the workings of the brain, Mr Solo? Miss Tereschenko?'

Napoleon and Kateryna looked at each other, and she said

'I'm sure Mr Kuryakin gave Mr Solo a little introduction to the subject before he left, and, as for me, my father was a Psychiatrist, so yes, I understand about the drugs and… ' she said 'their rather unpleasant side-effects.'Professor Leonard nodded.

'Yes, well Fetting was trying to control some of these, such as excessive sedation, muscle tremors, weight gain, etc etc, and he had apparently achieved considerable success. What we didn't realise at the time was how he had achieved that success, and who had enabled him to'.

'You mean the inmates of Dachau Concentration Camp' replied Napoleon.

While the Professor was talking, the feeling of foreboding that had begun on the aeroplane began to gnaw inside him.

'There is no doubt' said Professor Leonard 'that if he is still working, he has taken that work a stage further, and it will not be in the interests of finding a cure for paranoid schizophrenia. He will be developing something, and he will be seeking at the same time …' he looked straight at Napoleon, 'to have his revenge on poor Dr Kuryakin, for something that I am afraid is my responsibility, and which, unless you prevent this, I will have to bear the blame for'.

Napoleon rose to feet at the same time as the Professor had got up. He was obviously in considerable distress, and was gripping the mantelpiece above the gently burning fire in his study. It seemed almost a surreal experience to be talking about something so evil in a homely setting like this one, so seemingly remote from the world of spies and madmen.

'Professor, you can be assured that Miss Tereschenko and I will do everything in our power to ensure that Fetting is brought to justice before he can do any more harm, to Illya, or anyone else for that matter'.

As they were walking back across the quad, Solo had already pulled out his communication pen.

'Open channel D, overseas relay please. I need direct contact with the Berlin office urgently. I repeat urgently'.

CHAPTER 6

March

In his dreams, Illya could see her, looking up at him with a quizzical smile, the shopping bags either side of her. He tried to savour the expression of her face, her golden brown eyes, her hair, anything that would make her feel close to him, would tie her to him in some way.

His body stiffened as he realised that someone was in the room, quite close to his bed. Normally, he had lightning reactions in these situations, but this morning, his mind felt sluggish, heavy, unable to tell his body to perform the rapid movements he should be making to defend himself. Before he could summon up the energy to respond, an arm shot across his shoulders, pinning down his upper arms, and lips were whispering in his ear,

_'Guten morgan, liebling'._

'_Guten morgan_, Sabi. You shouldn't do that while I am in this parlous state'.

'Darling, I have to take my chances with you; normally you're too quick. You must be in need of a total recuperation' she replied, running her finger round his ear.

'Stop it, it's bad for my heart', he said, and rolled out of bed away from her.

She was dressed smartly in a suit, over which was a thick cashmere coat with a large fur collar. She sat on the bed watching him as he walked towards the bathroom and turned on the shower. Naked, Sabi could see that he had lost weight, and she clicked her tongue in worry. How had he got like this, she wondered. She wished Kateryna was here to discuss this with – she would have some sort of plan, would be able to know what to do about letting him go into the East Sector in a state like that. It filled her with horror at the thought. She tried to hide her fears with a bright smile when he returned, and hidden in the towelling dressing gown he had found, he did look a little better.

'Hurry up and get dressed, ,_mein klein sonnenlicht, _and we will start our building up programme, _Ja_? Sabi asked, getting up from the bed and going into the little sitting room which adjoined it. He shut the door as she went out, which she was surprised by, as they had shared apartments on several occasions. Eventually, he emerged from the bedroom looking reasonably refreshed and wearing his usual black.

'Do you know, my dear Sabi, I feel quite hungry' he said, smiling.

'Excellent, darling, I know just the place for a very large German breakfast, and then' she added, we will return here to plan'.

Sabi found his coat, and proceeded to help him put it on, buttoning it for him as if he was a little boy. She was surprised that he let her 'mother' him in this way. Their friendship meant a great deal to Sabi of course, but she wondered whether he realised the nature of her relationship with Kateryna. She looked closely at Illya as they walked along. He definitely needed some loving, she decided.

She took him to a small café near the apartment, where he gorged himself on a selection of ham, cheese, bread and even some cake that the astonished waitress offered, together with the obligatory coffee _mit sahne_ of course.

He sat back on the chair after the meal, looking replete, and whispered,

'Now the trick is to keep on all the considerable calories I must have taken in, without flushing them down the toilet'. She looked askance at him, before catching on to his meaning.

'How do you feel? Is it different to before?'

'Well, I don't feel so thirsty, and I haven't used the bathroom yet this morning, so …. I'm moderately hopeful of an improvement' he said, a faint smile animating his face.

'_Sehr Gut, liebling_; you see, Sabi's programmes always work, _nicht wahr_?

After the meal, they made their way back. The weather seemed to have turned even more bitterly cold since the morning, with the sky more than indicating the likelihood of a serious fall of snow that day. Sabi tucked her arm through Illya's, snuggling into him as they battled their way back to the apartment, the coldness of the day apparent in their billowing breaths. Illya's hair swirled around his head dramatically, and he turned up the collar of his coat to control it, Sabi wrapping her scarf round her head to protect her ears from the winter's blast.

Once they had recovered from their walk, Sabi made them a hot drink and fetched the briefcase she had brought from the Berlin office. Illya put on his glasses and read rapidly through the documents relevant to intelligence gathered by U.N.C.L.E. on Gerhard Fetting. All in all, it didn't really amount to very much. It was obvious that Fetting was not alone. Either he was being supported by THRUSH, or the Stasi, or, as Illya thought, both organisations in some way. It was perfectly possible that they had joined forces for their mutual benefit, and if Fetting was planning an exit strategy that involved a South American country, they both knew that the East German Secret Police had considerable external contacts which would be used if need be.

'Illya, I think you should wait a while before you make any plans, particularly those that involve going East,' Sabi said.

'And why is that' he replied. He looked up from the documents he was reading and took off his glasses to gaze at her.

'Because Kateryna will be here later - and she will not be alone' she said.

'And who will be with her? . . . . Don't tell me' he said, 'Napoleon! I knew he wouldn't be able to resist poking his nose in, like some clucking hen'.

'Now, don't be hard on him, Illyusha. Kateryna knew that you were coming – she _is_ station head here, you know, and they sort of 'bumped into' one another at your University. Besides, they are both very concerned about you'

'Isn't everybody?' said Illya gloomily. 'So I presume my compatriot will have some sort of plan already hatched with Napoleon?'

'Most definitely, darling, and you know what Kateryna wants, Kateryna gets' she said, stroking his hair. 'So, darling, the plan is that at least to begin with, you will relax, build up those lovely muscles again, and then you will be strong enough to face that man, with us as backup!'

She beamed at him enthusiastically, willing him to accept the plan which she desperately hoped would give him some protection when, as she knew he would, he entered the dangerous and uncertain world of the Eastern Sector of Berlin. When he looked comfortably settled, she told him that she was going out to 'gather supplies' and 'something nice and warm' for him to wear. As she was putting on her coat, he said suddenly,

'Sabi, do you believe in 'love at first sight?' She stopped buttoning, and sat down on the floor facing him.

'Why did you say that, darling? 'she replied softly.

'Because that is what I think has happened to me, Sabi. I think I am in love with someone I've only met once properly, and only said half a dozen words to'.

She wrinkled her brow in alarm.

'Surely you didn't stop eating, because of her?' she said. He laughed, his face really lighting up for the first time in what seemed like ages.

'No', he replied, 'that's got nothing to do with it, besides I didn't stop eating. I _never_ stop eating'.

'That's true, judging from your breakfast, and that very large lunch that you had' Sabi said, stroking his face. 'So, Illyusha, who is this _wunderfraulein_?

So he began to tell her about Thérèse.

xxxxxx

As the cab pulled away from the kerbside at Berlin's Tegel airport, Napoleon Solo felt the pulse of his communicator in his jacket pocket, followed by the familiar, insistent signal. Kateryna glanced sideways at him and raised her eyebrows.

'I wonder who that could be – as if we didn't know' she said, with a slight smile playing across her rather full lips, which, looking at her as he did now, made Napoleon notice the rather fetching shade of red lipstick she was wearing, complementing her long black coat, and rather interesting geometric print scarf. _Kat always was a good dresser,_ he thought.

'Yes sir', he replied in a neutral voice.

'I presume, Mr Solo, you are 'in the picture' so to speak, about our friend Herr Doktor Fetting, by now' said Waverly.

'Ah, yes sir, and I am very concerned about what might happen to Mr Kuryakin, Sir, so that's why . . .'

'That's why you deliberately disobeyed my orders and are about to join Mr Kuryakin in Berlin, Mr Solo'

'Well sir, Miss Tereschenko and I, we . . .'

'I am well aware of Miss Tereschenko's part in this affair, Mr Solo – do you think she just _happened_ to be in Cambridge at the exact same time as you did? I informed U.N.C.L.E. Berlin of Mr Kuryakin's mission, and Miss Tereschenko offered to assist you in your part of the work. I did not expect you to return to Berlin with her, and I will not, I repeat, I will not countenance any interference on your part with Mr Kuryakin's plans, however worthy you may think your motives are. Do you understand, Mr Solo?

'Yes sir' Napoleon replied, his face tight with anger. 'However, with respect, sir, both Miss Tereschenko and I believe that Illya, Mr Kuryakin, could be in mortal danger if he is discovered to be in the East Sector by Fetting, unless we have the time to set up some kind of back-up for him'.

'Mr Solo' said Waverly, his voice growing in irritation, ' it is of the greatest importance, and I stress this, that you do not prevent Mr Kuryakin fulfilling his role in this matter. If you are unable to do this, then I suggest that you hand in your credentials and weapon to UNCLE Berlin, and that your employment with this organisation is terminated forthwith. Mr Kuryakin is fully aware of the risks of this, and every mission that he has undertaken for UNCLE, and has carried out his duties without complaint. Perhaps you should follow his example. Waverly out'.

'And thank you for your concern' said Napoleon fiercely to his communicator, snapping the top back. Kat put her arm round his, and held him next to her for a few seconds.

'Not good, then' she said.

'Not good' he replied. 'I can't understand why he is so insistent that Illya puts himself into this much danger without support. Well, he can just go and ….'

She put her finger over his mouth.

'Listen. Whatever is going on in New York, he must know that you will not abandon Illyusha. If he's saying what I thought I heard, then he's saying it, either because he's a cold-hearted _schwein_, or perhaps, because he wants someone else to believe that Illya will have no back-up. Either way, we know what we're going to do, don't we?'

'We do?'

'You think that I would let my fellow Ukrainian – well, his mother's a Ukrainian isn't she?' she said, making him smile, 'you think I would let him be taken by that creature without at least some protection? No, we need to find Sabi, and blondie, first. Apparently, she has put into action her own 'plan' because she tells me he is not well'. Solo turned towards her and said,

'You could say that. He was fine until a few weeks ago, when some fool doctor gave him something which made him look like a refugee from a POW camp. That's what I can't get, Kat, why Waverly would send him out like that, knowing he was sick'.

'Well, you'll find that Sabi is working very hard to restore Illya to his former magnificent self, and she tells me that he is responding well to her treatment'.

'I'm sure he is' said Napoleon, arching his eyebrows at the thought. _'If only he knew' _he thought, '_and I bet he hasn't worked it out yet. He's such a child in these things'._ Suddenly, a great rush of affection for his friend seemed to come up into his throat and choke him. He wondered at himself. _I must be losing it _he thought. _Perhaps Waverly's right._

They drew up to the apartment block and Solo climbed out, holding the door open for Kat. He turned up his collar to shield him from the bitter wind that seemed to howl round every corner here. He didn't like Berlin; he thought it was like a schizophrenic – two personalities. How ironic that thought was, considering what Professor Leonard had just told him. He helped Kat with their bags, and they took the lift up to the apartment where he hoped he would see a better Illya than the pale ghost he had travelled to England with.

The evening was drawing in as they rang the doorbell, the myriad lights of the busy main streets of West Berlin in contrast to the stern blocks which Napoleon could see stretching behind the wall, just visible from the window on the landing. Napoleon's brooding thoughts were broken by the pleasant sensation of 'the Sabi effect' as they all called it, namely a big hug and a sensational kiss from the girl herself.

'My dear Sabina – charming as ever' said Napoleon, wiping her lipstick from his mouth.

'Napolina, darling!' cooed Sabi. She was the only person whom he allowed to call him this ridiculous name, which sounded more like an ice-cream than anything else.

The inside of the apartment looked like a scene from an episode of the TV programme 'I LOVE Lucy', with Illya and Sabi playing the parts. The 'man of the house' lay slouched on a large armchair, his feet put up on a large stool. Astonishingly, he was wearing a thick, what looked like hand-knitted, jumper and similar looking thick knitted slipper-socks of a Nordic design. He had obviously been fast asleep by the fire, for his face was slightly flushed from the heat. His hair was in its usual disarray, and Napoleon could see Kat looking back at him, then at the long, wayward hair with mock disapproval on her face.

As they came in, Napoleon noticed that Sabi, to complete the picture, was wearing a fetching little apron, and as soon as she had let them in, had rushed into the kitchen, where she could be heard making various 'domestic ' noises. Being careful to stand in a safe position, Napoleon whispered into the Russian's ear,

'Where's the toboggan? Under the bed?'

Without appearing to move a muscle, but with his eyelids imperceptably twitching, Illya replied,

'Jealousy doesn't become you, Napoleon, and besides, I think you'll find this is Berlin, not Cambridge or New York, so what are you doing here? Napoleon smiled and sighed a deep sigh of relief tinged with the beginnings of worry about what was to come. '_I am definitely losing it' _he thought.

Illya hauled himself up out of the chair, just as Sabi entered the room with a selection of wonderful looking appetisers, followed seconds later, by a tray of aperitifs.

'Now I could get used to this' Napoleon said, stretching out on a long sofa pulled up to the fire next to the armchair. He noticed that Kat and Sabi had gone into the kitchen, and he could see that they were standing quite close together, Kat's hand on the blonde agent's shoulder, their heads dipped in serious conversation. He leaned over towards Illya and whispered,

'Sabi's making you a fine '_hausfrau'_ then?'

'In name only, Napoleon, as you know, in name only' Illya replied.

'I didn't think you'd have worked it out by now' Napoleon replied, looking somewhat surprised at the calmness of his partner's reaction.

'I may be called 'The King of Siberia' at work, but, despite all outward appearances, I have some sensitivity in my Russian soul. Besides, she told me all about it when we were talking about love.' Illya turned slowly to look at the stunned face of his friend. 'Yes, Napoleon, even I seem to have got myself into a situation that I cannot control, namely being in love'.

Before Napoleon could reply, and after he had shut his dropping jaw, the girls returned from the kitchen. They put the drinks and food on the table, Kat providing some paper to make notes for their meeting. She had obviously been thinking deeply about what was to happen. She immediately outlined for them her strategy for the forthcoming mission. She asked Illya quite bluntly to state what he hoped to achieve with regard to Fetting. Napoleon could see that Illya didn't want to talk about what had happened at Cambridge, but nevertheless he was quite candid about his twin objectives – to stop whatever Fetting's research was, including the freeing of any victims of his experimentation, and secondly, the capture and prosecution of the pharmacist.

Napoleon was convinced that somewhere in all this, there was another agenda – the whole question of Fetting's wish for revenge, which made the selection of Illya as the leading agent quite absurd. However, Waverly had made it quite clear that this was what would happen, and seemed completely oblivious to the role of David Miller in all this, something blindingly obvious to Napoleon. Perhaps Kat was right; that Waverly was counting on him to not leave his partner, to support him in the way he always had. But if he did, if he followed Illya into the East, then it had been made quite clear by Waverly that his future with UNCLE was very uncertain. Napoleon frowned. Could he just 'follow orders' as Illya appeared to be doing, and return to New York, leaving him here to face Fetting with inadequate backup, or should he follow his instincts, and risk the possible end of their professional relationship anyway?

He felt somebody's hand on his arm.

'Napoleon, wake up, you're missing the exciting bit' Illya said. They were poring over a map of East Berlin by this time, Kat pointing at several places, which she circled with a red pen.

'Here, this will be where Sabi will be working at Friederichstrasse, or of course as we know it now, 'Checkpoint Charlie'. We have some contacts in the East German border police, which come in handy from time to time. Sabi will need a few weeks to try to find out where Fetting may be working, without it becoming too obvious she is asking questions, otherwise Illya's life won't be the only one in danger'.

Illya looked worried at this part of the plan, and asked Sabi if she was sure she wanted to take the risk. She stared unbelievingly at him.

'Illya, you are very sweet, but sometimes you need a good smacking' she said. 'You know very well that this is my job; much as I love looking after you, darling, I am also employed as an U.N.C.L.E. agent; and in Berlin, that involves doing work that is a little more dangerous than being a _hausfrau_ to you. Or do you think that only Illya Kuryakin gets to risk his life on a regular basis?

Illya blushed slightly, which Napoleon thought interesting.

'Sabi, you are wonderful. I am sure you will look very fetching in your uniform. Just keep the whip hidden in case Napoleon gets ideas' Illya replied, ducking as a well-aimed napkin ring flew from the table in his direction. Kat glared at both of them, secretly glad that all was well with Illya-Napoleon world – they were still cracking jokes at each other's expense. She continued to outline the plan.

Despite his vehement protests, they all agreed that Illya should not risk going into the East Sector until they had some idea where Fetting was working. This would also give him the opportunity to become fit again. Napoleon would be the better choice to make some reconnaissance visits to East Berlin, Kat suggesting where she thought which STASI buildings might house a laboratory and medical facilities. She also told Napoleon that she would try to speak to Waverly, to get him to agree to him staying in Berlin a little longer.

'I don't know if that's such a good idea, Kat' Napoleon said quietly. Ever since his last conversation with Waverly, he had begun to wonder about his position in UNCLE. What exactly was the relationship between Alexander Waverly and David Miller? And did that relationship now exclude him, and was it leading to Illya being treated as expendable too?

'Well, what do you want me to do?' Kat replied, cocking her head to one side.

'He won't leave us alone until either you or I make a report, so we have to come up with a pretty good reason for you staying here, if you're not to be taken back to New York in chains', she added, with a slight smile.

'Kattya, why don't you tell Waverly that Illya can't go into the East Sector yet, because he is medically unfit? Sabi said, looking at Illya's face, which was set in an arctic glare. 'When I start at the crossing point tomorrow, you will need to take over my 'rehabilitation' programme, anyway, won't she darling?' She looked over at Illya, who now begun to wonder what exactly Sabi's 'programme' might involve. Sabi came to sit closer to Kat, and they started to make a list, talking excitedly with each other in German, Illya listening intently all the while to what they were planning, trying to look over Kat's shoulder at her scrawling handwriting.

Eventually, they finished the list and looked up. Kat looked at Illya, and then started to outline what they had in mind. She would take him to the medical section at UNCLE Berlin in the morning, where he would be declared medically unfit. This would effectively protect Napoleon, who they could then justify doing some preparatory work while Illya 'recovered'. By this time, they would have some better intelligence on the whereabouts of Fetting, and then they would have to allow Illya to 'go East' or risk being suspended from their jobs. Kat also suggested a series of workouts with the resident fitness coach at the Berlin section. Illya, whose glare looked as it it was coming straight from the Urals just at the mention of 'doctors', now looked up with a pained expression.

'It wouldn't still be Herr Ingo Schoeneich in charge, by any remote chance?' he groaned, his hand raking through the thick hair which had fallen forward over his eyes, as he tried to look at the list, without success. Napoleon, who was helping himself to another drink, began to grin, which he managed to hide when Illya glanced at him. _Hoping for sympathy_, he thought.

'The same'. I'd forgotten your last session with Ingo, Illya', Kat added, I'm sure he'll be delighted to get to know you all over again'.

Ingo Schoeneich was massive, even by German standards, and Illya had had to work incredibly hard to prevent being smashed down on the ground time after time in their training sessions together. Training! It was more like torture, although Ingo was always insufferably cheerful, insisting on giving Illya lengthy massage sessions at the end of each training period, which Illya often reflected were almost as bad as the so-called training itself. '_He will have me for dinner, in the state I am in now' _he thought to himself.

'If you don't want the training sessions, we could always spend the time improving your appearance' Kat said, interrupting his thoughts. 'It looks as if you could do with it'. She started to run her fingers through his hair, but in a flash, he had put his arms over his head in mock protection.

'I'll take Ingo any day', Illya muttered.

CHAPTER 7

April

The telephone reverberated around the sparsely furnished office, vibrating on the black desk until it was finally silenced.

'Fetting. Yes. Yes I know he is here, but not here, in this laboratory, so it is hardly a success is it?'

'Well, that is good to hear. He will need all his strength for his future 'career' as it were.'

'The American? Let him. He will discover nothing, and then my former colleague will be forced, no, will not be able to prevent himself, from coming into the open.'

'Yes, those whores at UNCLE Berlin are involved. Things are in an advanced state of preparation here. Good, I'm glad to hear everything is under control at your end.'

'No, please do not concern yourself. I have waited a long time for this moment, and a week or so longer will be worth the wait, I am sure. You have the transit details complete? _Gut. Sehr gut'._

xxxxxx

Napoleon had crossed the frontier at Checkpoint Charlie, along with the other tourists who passed through the rather anonymous box-like structure that led to the East Sector of Berlin. He had used his American passport, which guaranteed that he would not be challenged by the border guards, and he tried not to make eye contact with Sabi, although that was difficult, as she was checking passports.

She had flattened down her usual rather spiky elfin hairstyle, and with no make-up, and the unflattering uniform, she looked utterly convincing. In fact, she gave him rather a hard time, glaring at his passport photo, then at him, than at his photo again for what seemed like an eternity, until she had given him a peremptory nod and turned away, whispering something to another guard standing behind her. He dreaded to think what rude comment she was making about him or his photo.

He had memorised the various buildings he wanted to survey, but only one really merited his attention. Hohenschönhausen. Most East Berliners had heard of the infamous prison, but there were few former inmates walking around to share their experiences of 'life inside'. Kat had arranged for him to pick up a car just near the Alexanderplatz, which looked like a giant construction site trying to make sense of wartime destruction. What she hadn't told him was what the car was going to be. He grimaced as he walked over to the German UNCLE agent, who was standing next to a grimy blue Trabant. These cars, treasured possessions of East Germans, only obtained after a 10 year waiting list had been topped, were nothing more than a motor bike engine with a shell to Napoleon .

The agent slipped him the keys and then disappeared into the crowd before Napoleon could make any detrimental comment about the car. It was hell to start, and made his already depressive mood just that bit worse. He chugged through the city, praying that no-one that he knew ever witnessed seeing him in something as awful as this. Finally, after a few mistaken turns, the little car swung into the road facing the enormous compound that housed the prison. He drove straight past, and parked some way away.

Sabi had provided him with the requisite clothing that would allow him to blend in. After all, they were hardly on the tourist route, he thought. He stuck the rather unpleasant trilby hat on his head, thanking God for the second time in as many minutes, that he was alone in his sartorial nightmare.

Napoleon knew that it was going to be next to impossible to properly survey this set of buildings without arousing suspicion. Even getting near would be difficult, and to break into it was to invite himself on a very long visit to the GDR indeed. The compound was huge, with numerous buildings. It was certainly possible that in this maze, there could be a hospital. There was a very large and dominating block which Napoleon could only imagine was where prisoners were kept. In here, he thought, were people whose only crime was to ask for an exit visa to be with their relatives.

He began to think about Illya. Although he had talked to him about his former life, he had blandly assumed that Illya had made the adjustment to living in the West with ease. Being in East Berlin forced him to re-assess his superficial view of how difficult that adjustment must have been. And now he was being forced to contemplate the surrender of this man back to what? This place? And if he was imprisoned here, the object of Fetting's psychopathic revenge fantasies, could he, Napoleon Solo get him out again? And, most horrible thought of all, what state would he be in, even if it proved possible to do that? Fetting's vile face reared up in front of him like a recurring bad dream.

There was really no alternative. The only possible way of knowing about this place, was to have someone on the inside. The only likely candidate for that job would be a German agent – someone like Sabi, if it was possible to infiltrate the STASI system and place someone there. Otherwise, it was going to be next to impossible to either help Illya, or rescue him, should he end up here. Napoleon wondered what excuse he could give to prevent his partner taking such a high risk. At least he had Illya's fitness problem on his side for the time being, at least.

He trudged back to the Trabant, and sat there for a while, looking at some maps of the area. The main block of the prison was clearly apparent on the map. Immediately adjacent to the main block, there was a long, low building. Without actually being there, it was difficult to know exactly, but Solo was pretty sure that this was the hospital and laboratory.

He thought back to the conversation he had had with Illya the other evening. He had been shocked at his friend openly talking about something that Napoleon thought was as far from Illya's thoughts as Siberia was to Des Moines, Iowa. It wasn't as if Napoleon didn't believe in love at first sight - it just hadn't happened to him, that was all. Indeed, Illya often referred to Napoleon's frequent dates as 'lust at first sight', and he had to admit that most of these assignations were fleeting things, a good time for a short time, nothing else. No strings attached, no involvement. Now, his partner, the one everyone thought didn't even notice the girls, never mind consider having a relationship with one, the so-called 'ice prince', this intensely private man who had no social life, no dress sense, and no wish to get a life, _so they said_, seemed to have embarked on a serious and enduring love affair with a sensual, foreign woman. Napoleon suddenly felt old. Old, and, strangely, rather lonely. Was their friendship about to change, to somehow fade, even? Even if Illya survived this mission, would his love for her lessen his commitment to his partner?

Napoleon sat back in the little car, and shook his head, as if that would sort things out in it and put them right. Everything seemed at odds with how it should be – U.N.C.L.E. New York, this shambles of a mission in Berlin, Illya's illness – it was all wrong, and for once, he didn't seem able to put it right. He drove back through leaden streets full of hurrying figures. _God, this is a depressing hole_, he thought, as he parked up the Trabant, leaving the keys under the seat, as Kat had instructed.

He wondered just how much longer they could keep Illya at bay, as it were, before he finally lost patience and did something to 'move forward' the situation. It had been three weeks since their plan had been decided upon, and Illya was growing stronger by the day, or that was certainly how it looked to Solo. The gaunt look had almost disappeared, and he was filling out, as much as he ever actually looked 'filled out'.

He had braved the Berlin office's gym on a daily basis, the giant German gym instructor giving him no leeway. On the first day, he had thrown an elastic band at Illya and told him to 'get it cut or tie it back'. The stubborn Russian had just wrenched back the now, quite long hair, into the band, and with a face that would freeze over the Mediterranean, worked silently away at the fitness programme Schoeneich had devised for him. Kat had told Napoleon that really, Ingo had a soft spot for Illya, and had been concerned about him when he saw him at first. Not that anyone would have known it, had they watched them sparring on the mats, or seen Schoneich forcing him into yet another twenty press-ups when Illya was dripping with sweat and looked ready to pass out with exhaustion.

Still, with Sabi and Kat shovelling food into Illya at an alarming rate, he seemed to be reaching the fitness levels demanded of an active agent. Of course this was good news, but it could also be a serious problem for Napoleon. As soon as this happened, it would be difficult for him to justify his continued presence in Berlin to Waverly. Then what? He walked back from Alexanderplatz towards Checkpoint Charlie. Thinking about Illya had oddly made him forget that they had arranged to meet at a café which overlooked the border crossing on the West side. Solo suddenly remembered it was Sunday. A day of rest.

xxxxxxx

Illya turned his coat up to the cold, and silently wished he'd brought his fur hat to keep him warm. He was getting to the point of no return with this situation. He had gone along with everything they had asked – in a way, he could hardly say he hadn't enjoyed feeling as fit and strong as he did now. But it was weeks since he had come to Berlin, and sooner or later, they had to allow him to carry out the mission he had been given. As he had guessed, Napoleon had spent days combing East Berlin, poring over maps with Kat, endlessly talking about where they thought Fetting might be, how they could control what might happen. But the answer was that they couldn't control it. Somebody had to get inside, and the only person who could do this was Illya Kuryakin.

As he walked up the road, clenching his shoulders together to keep the cold out, glad that Sabi's Nordic sweater, which Napoleon found so amusing, so un-chic, was providing him with considerable warmth, he came up to a large church. Because it was Sunday, a large crowd of people were pouring out after Mass, clutching small branches and yellow sheaves of dried palm. Illya's childhood rushed into his mind. His mother was a Catholic, but the Ukrainian Catholic church was Orthodox in tradition – it faced East as it were. He had a strong memory of that church, of the magic of it for a small boy- the icons with many twinkling candles in front, symbol of a thousand prayers urgently whispered; of the great iconostasion, obscuring the sanctuary, until the doors were thrown open to reveal the mystery that lay behind.

His mother had been disappointed when he had stopped going to church with her; the pressures of a secular state and his age combining to pull him away. He had been in churches since those days, but his job with UNCLE seemed to stand in the way of having a religious faith, of believing that in some way the victory over evil had already been won, simply by the sacrifice of a man on a cross.

He stepped inside and sat down at the back of the church. A number of people seemed occupied with clearing up after the Mass, and Illya was left to his own thoughts. He picked up a leaflet left on the seat. It was the Mass readings for this special day, the beginning of Holy Week. He scanned the first few lines, the usual prayers and introductory sentences. Then the Old Testament reading from Isaiah.

_For my part I made no resistance,_

_neither did I turn away._

_I offered my back to those who struck me,_

_my cheeks to those who tore at my beard;_

_I did not cover my face_

_against insult and spittle._

_The Lord comes to my help,_

_So that I am untouched by the insults._

_So too, I set my face like flint;_

_I know I shall not be shamed._

The words seemed to course through him like a river, shutting out all the other noises of the church and the street outside. He read them again and then put the paper down. He felt strangely calm, as if the words had given him an understanding of events that would come, and his part in them. He got up, and went towards a bank of votive candles placed in front of the plaster statue of a saint. He stared up at the image – a nun in a cream and brown habit, clutching a few roses, and a crucifix. For once, his encyclopaedic knowledge failed him, and he glanced around for an explanation of who she was.

'Do you have a devotion to the Little Flower?'

He jumped slightly, not aware that someone was standing behind him. The old lady smiled at him. She told him about the saint, that she was patroness of the missions, even though she had never left the confines of her convent.

'Such is the power of prayer' she added, touching his hand. He turned and looked at her.

'Thank you for your explanation. But what is her name? '

'Oh, don't you know? It's St Thérèse. St Thérèse of Lisieux'.

Illya's heart thumped hard at the name. He thanked the old lady and, dropping a few coins in the adjacent box, placed a candle in the stand and stood back. The Little Flower. It seemed like a rather soppy, delicate title when he thought of the lively girl with the flashing eyes who shared the same name. Still, it had a beauty about it that she shared too. He wondered whether his Thérèse had not given up on him after so many weeks. He cursed himself for not doing something earlier, and glancing up at the statue, he rushed to the door of the church, and ran down the street back to the apartment, taking the stairs two at a time until he threw himself inside, dragging off his coat and casting it onto the sofa.

The phone, as he suspected, was routed through the Berlin office. He put down the receiver and went into the bedroom, returning with a set of tiny tools in a little case. He turned the phone on end and started to take it apart. A few minutes, and a few curses later, he had disabled the routing mechanism and 'restored' the phone to normal use. He returned the tools to his suitcase, and returned with his address book, with her number written carefully under the 'Mc' entry.

He knew there would be trouble if they found out, but he had got past caring. During the last few weeks he had felt so ill, so weak, that he had allowed all of them to run his life, make the decisions. Now, he had to take a risk, because it might be all he had left. As he was ringing the number, he suddenly thought about the time - what time was it in New York? He winced when he realised it would be very early, probably about 5 or 5.30 in the morning. The phone rang a few times, every ring feeling like an eternity to him. Normally Illya felt so in control of his life; his missions were carried out pretty well, that is, if Napoleon didn't go off and do something unexpected, usually with a woman. His work in the lab was orderly and efficient, in fact his life, to his mind, was ordered and efficient. Until now. This was the most illogical thing in the world – to be ringing up a girl he hardly knew from a safe house in Berlin, and tell her …. He hardly dared think.

The phone was suddenly picked up and her very sleepy, _deliciously so_, he thought, voice came up through the receiver into his ear.

'Hello?'

'Thérèse? It's Illya. You know, your neighbour'.

Not the greatest line in the world. He could feel Napoleon at the back of him, pulling a face at the gaucheness of it. He tried again. 'I'm sorry I took so long to ring. I was unavoidably detained with some work and I .. well, I couldn't get to a phone before now'. This was worse. He could hear Napoleon saying 'great chat-up line' in a sarcastic voice. He wished she would say something to put him out of his misery.

'And are you free now?

She sounded as if she knew he was in agony, and was trying to help him out. He sat down in the chair, and tried to gather his scrambled thoughts.

'Well, sort of, that is, well, I may have to go away for a bit, but I'll be back soon, and then we can go out together -_ oh the thought of it! _– if you still want to, that is'. Pathetic.

He leaned back. This was getting worse by the minute, and he had promised to meet Napoleon at the Adler café in an hour's time. He would have to keep this conversation a secret from Napoleon or risk unmerciful ribbing for some time. He was caught completely off guard by her reply.

'Illya, you ring me at 5.30 in the morning. I don't know where you are, and now you tell me that you may have to go away. You _are_ away. Away from me. You have been away far too long, and I want you back, so we can get on with whatever we think we have going on between us.'

His eyes closed with the words 'I want you back'. It was if a barrier had been removed.

'I want to be back with you. I want to be with you. I want to be with you a lot' he whispered hoarsely. He could feel an errection coming at the same time as his legs felt like jelly.

'Good' she said. 'That's settled then'. After a few seconds, she said 'Do you think that wherever you are, you could send me a photo, of you of course' she added, a low melodious laugh accompanying this. 'It's just that I think in images, it's the photographer thing in me, I suppose. It would help me to keep you close to me until you come home'.

The word 'home' conjured up at once wonderful and painful images to him. He saw the house on Grove St – and he saw her there, waiting for him. It was almost too powerful for him to take in, even the faintest chance that he could have what others had – a lover, a relationship, a family.

They talked for a long time then – about themselves, their interests. Music, languages, ordinary things, just chatting. She explained about her family – her father was of Irish parentage, hence the surname, but her mother was Mallorcan, which explained her appearance. He asked her about the 'Little Flower' and told her about the church. She explained that yes, her father named her after the saint, because she had been such a tiny baby, so delicate. She didn't ask where he was, or demand that he told her, she just seemed to accept whatever he wanted to share with her. Eventually, she said,

Well, we've covered all the things people do on their first date, so we can bypass that when we're together next, can't we?' she became quiet. 'I mean, we can . . .' She was trying to say something, and he knew she was wondering whether to take the risk.

'Therese, would it be presumptuous of me if I … Look, I have to say this before I go, because, well, you see …I might. . . . '

'Illya' she said very gently, 'would it be very presumptuous of _me_ if I told you that I think I am falling in love with you over the telephone?'

He sighed deeply. It was easy then to just pour it out, to tell her how he felt, how much she was in his thoughts, how much he felt he loved her already. They discussed whether everybody would think they were mad, and agreed that they would, but they didn't care. Very reluctantly, he said he had to go.

At the end, she asked him whether what he did was dangerous. He was silent for a short while, then confessed that, yes, it was, but he was determined to get back as quickly as he could. After all, he had a reason now. He told her that he worked for U.N.C.L.E.

'Uncle who?'

'No', he smiled, 'not _my _uncle, the organisation U.N.C.L.E.'

'Oh, is it something to do with the UN? Joey works there of course'.

'Not exactly, and who's Joey?'

'Joey is my sister. It's her apartment really; she's a lawyer at the UN'. She laughed, a throaty, sexy laugh. 'I think you'd have remembered her if you'd met her – taller, scary scouse version of me, takes no prisoners'.

'Oh' Illya said, 'I'll just have to wait for that pleasure when I get back'. He thought for a minute. 'Thérèse . . .'

She interrupted him. 'Illya, call me Tess, everyone does. Except the family of course, then it's Tessy, but that's a Liverpool thing, ending everything with an 'ee'. _She'd have to find his diminutive._

'Tess … if you need to …. If you are ever worried…. then, you remember that friend of mine you met? You could contact him.'

She said nothing. Illya could almost feel her thinking about what he had told her.

'Come back to me in one piece, promise? '

'I promise.'

'And send the photo.'

'I promise that too.'

'I love you.'

'And that too.'

And then she was gone. He glanced at his watch, gasped, threw on his coat again, and rushed down the stairs and out of the building.

xxxxxxxxxx

Thérèse put the phone down carefully, as if it was still connected to him somehow. She lay back on the pillows of her bed, her hands behind her head. For a moment she felt paralysed with what, amazement at her own boldness? Worry for a man she had only met once, had only touched once, and yet she had just told that she loved him? She began to smile, a satisfied smile, her whole body relaxing with the thought of it all.

After a few minutes, she got up. She couldn't possibly go back to sleep. She wandered into the living room. This was her favourite room. It was a large, well-proportioned room with high ceilings and lovely oak floors. On the back wall, some French windows could be opened in the summer to a little garden, which Therese had created from the boring square of lawn they had inherited when they moved here. She had planted a mulberry tree in the middle, with gravel round it. All over the gravel, there were terracotta pots, which, in the summer were used for growing a variety of tomatoes, zucchini and other vegetables. There were also other pots which would be bursting with bright-coloured flowers in a few months, but now, were planted with a mixture of winter plants; evergreen, tough.

Propped up against one wall was a selection of her favourite musical instruments – a couple of guitars, acoustic and electric, a banjo, and even a delicate shaped lute. Her father had started her with the guitar when she could hardly hold the instrument on her lap, but now she was an accomplished guitarist, with wide ranging musical tastes. Her choice of instrument and music often followed her mood, and now, well she was pretty ecstatic, so – it had to be the electric rhythm guitar, no other would do. As she plugged the lead in to the amplifier, a fleeting concern for her sleeping sister next door passed through her mind – and out again. She played a few quiet -ish cords, then let rip with a series of riffs which reverberated round the wall, bouncing perfectly off the wooden floor and filling the room with sound.

Through the music, she was suddenly aware of a figure gesticulating at her from the doorway.

'Sorry Joey, I was just having a little jam'

'At six in the morning? Are you mad?' Jo McCaffrey stared at her sister, standing there by the window. The guitar looked incongruous, slung over her pyjamas, her hair hanging right down her back in one long, thick plait. As usual, she was trying to look innocent, as if this was a perfectly normal thing to do. Something had happened, and it was probably connected to the phone ringing at some ungodly hour this morning. _What was she like? _Jo thought.

Jo was the eldest of the five McCaffrey children, and had always adopted a protective attitude to her two younger sisters and brothers. Not that she needed to with Tessy. Pictures from their childhood flashed through her mind. Tessy in the middle of so many fights on the school playground, usually with boys, emerging bloodied but undaunted. Tessy running round the football pitch in her red Liverpool strip, the only girl on the school team, a ferocious tackler for her small size, and what a left foot! Tessy with a face like thunder, being forced into her first communion dress, her hair a mass of curls, which she had wrecked as soon as she got home, by putting her head into a sink of water. Worst of all, Tessy the twin; wanting so much to be like her brother. She wouldn't forget their mother's face when Tessy presented her with her plaits, which she had persuaded her brother, Gabi to cut off - 'so we can be real twins'. She hadn't changed much really. Still the tomboy, going all over the place taking pictures, even to war zones, where she would return without saying much; just going into the darkroom at the back of the apartment and emerging with the photographs which told the story.

And now the tomboy seemed curiously different, or so it seemed.

'So, mystery girl, who rang then, or am I not allowed to know?' She could have sworn Tessy had blushed. She looked up, smiling, and said,

'Make a cup of tea, and I'll tell you'. It was a man, she was sure. Jo hoped he knew what he was getting into with this one. And then there was the family.

xxxxxxxxx

The café Adler was a popular destination for tourists in West Berlin, the sort of tourists who liked sitting, watching the comings and goings of the most famous crossing point between the East and West. Illya could see the café and also the checkpoint as he strolled up the road. A man was coming out of the large hut that served as a passport control office, his gait rather familiar. Illya stifled an outright laugh as he saw his partner coming towards him with an outfit that demanded a photo being taken for the sole purpose of passing round the office.

Perhaps it was this, or the fact that Illya was still recovering from the telephone call. and pondering how to explain himself to Kat, which led him to miss the two men who appeared round the corner and fell into step behind him. As he slowed down to move through the tables and chairs which stood outside the café waiting for summer, they were suddenly either side of him. A sharp pain in his leg instantly had him reeling. As he fought to keep consciousness, he could just see Napoleon breaking into a run. As his sight began to fail, the last thing he heard were running steps, from too far away to matter.

CHAPTER 8

April

The corridor was extremely wide and brightly lit. For as far as Illya could see, a series of grey, metal doors extended along on both sides. Looking down, he noticed, oddly, that the floor was painted a brown colour, as if it was trying to look warm and homely. That was the last word to describe it.

He had been driven round in the van for some time, forced to lay on the floor, his hands and feet bound tightly, and his mouth covered with tape. When the checkpoint into the East was reached, he was covered with a series of cardboard boxes. He heard the back doors of the van being opened, some voices outside the van, and then they were shut again. He judged that they were in the East sector by the boxes being removed, but he remained tied to the floor while the van seemed to drive aimlessly round for some time.

Eventually, Illya had no idea at all where they were, or even if they were still in Berlin. The van jerked to a stop and one guard wrenched the tape from his mouth while the other unbound his ankles. His hands were growing increasingly numb.

They dragged him off the van before he could really find his feet, and half marched, half dragged him down a flight of stairs and along the corridor. His coat and jumper had been taken off him, but, unusually, he was allowed to keep the rest of his clothes on. He lay on the narrow bed in the cell, wondering why this time it was so different to all the other times he had been in this situation.

For he had been in this situation so many times. _Too many times _he thought. Perhaps when he retired, he would write a book – _Kuryakin's guide to prison cells and how to escape from them_ – he was sure it would be a best-seller. He hoped that Napoleon and the girls would keep to their side of the plan; to provide back-up, not trying some suicidal attempt to storm this part of the compound. From his limited opportunity to size up the place, he could see that it would be well nigh impossible to even break _into_ this underground prison block, never mind get out again. It was bristling with armed guards, and being subterranean, there was no chance of escaping without going along the corridor. Perhaps that was why they hadn't bothered with the usual treatment meted out to him in these places – stripping, roughing up or worse.

It was vital now that his colleagues allow him to be taken out of the prison and to the hospital block, which was above ground, and therefore both capable of escaping from, and being blown up. He needed to be completely focused when they came for him. He had no doubt that Fetting could only mean to harm him. He hoped that whatever he was planning, Illya could get the opportunity to stop him. It was unlikely, however, that Fetting could be taken alive.

He had got the impression in New York, that Waverly thought only _he_ needed to be involved in this mission. Was there something Waverly knew that he didn't, or did he know in some strange way, what was going to happen? In that case, Waverly's orders would be in direct opposition to the plans they had made in Berlin with Kat and Sabi. There seemed to be a communication problem somewhere.

Illya laid back on the bed, clasping his hands behind his head. Now it was a matter of waiting.

xxxxxxxxxx

They had the map out in front of them, Napoleon circling the relevant buildings.

'He has to be here – this is the only STASI compound with a hospital block big enough to include a laboratory. It's essential that we move fast, because I am convinced that what Fetting is planning is not going to be a guided tour of the hospital with tea and cakes thrown in, that's for sure' Napoleon said, looking from one of the women agents to the other. They nodded in agreement.

'Kat and Sabi looked at each other, deep concern showing on both their faces. Sabi had seen the van go across the checkpoint, but was unable to intervene. It made her feel sick inside, thinking of him in that place. She had seen the results of STASI interrogation for herself. Former prisoners were too traumatised to want to reveal their ordeals, but the evidence on their bodies was bad enough – cigarette burns, starvation, beating, rape. These were just a few of the pleasures of being a guest at Hohenschönhausen.

'Napoleon' Kat replied, 'we are going to have to be quick. They already have him, I imagine, in the cell complex, which is underground. Even if Blondie manages to do anything to damage the lab or take out Fetting, or both, which, despite his genius, I doubt, it will be extremely difficult for us to infiltrate the compound'.

Napoleon looked up, his lips tight. 'Well fine. We just leave him there to be experimented on by that bastard, and then one of us eventually goes to visit him on hospital visiting day'. He got up and banged the wall hard with his fist, turning away from them to try to control his anger and frustration. 'Shit, shit, shit' he muttered to himself.

Sabi got up and put her hand on his shoulder. 'Napolina, we will do something, we won't leave Illyusha'. She glanced at Kat. 'I have a boyfriend now. His name is Karl, and he is a STASI officer'.

Kat raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips provocatively at her partner. 'I hope you and Karl will be very happy together. Just how will this little love affair help us, Sabina?'

'Karl is going to get me an interview in the medical wing, you know the hospital. It's for four days time, on Thursday. Do you think Illya will be able to hold out until then? She looked imploringly at Napoleon. He reflected on their position. They were quite right, it would be extremely tough to break into the compound, let alone rescue Illya. An insider would probably be the only possible chance of rescuing this mission from the total shambolic mess it seemed to be turning into. As if to complete the nightmare, his communicator started to buzz.

'Solo. Yes sir, that's right'. He mouthed the name 'Waverly' to the women, as if they didn't already realise. 'What? I mean, pardon sir, I didn't quite catch that'. Napoleon's face was a study. He seemed to be gripping the communicator as if his life depended upon it. After what seemed like a long time, he spoke in a clipped tone 'Yes sir. I understand fully. Solo out'.

He sat down. He put his communicator away in his pocket, and then was silent for a few moments before he said

'It appears, girls, that I am needed in the New York office. It has been decided, apparently, that to carry out our plan would be to 'seriously endanger Mr Kuryakin's mission'.

The atmosphere in the room felt oppressive. Kat thought Napoleon, astonishingly, looked close to tears. He looked down, struggling to regain some sort of composure before he said anything further. Sabi, always the demonstrative one, hugged him for a few seconds, whispering, 'I'm still going, Napoleon. We will carry on, Kat and I. We won't leave him, we promise'. Besides, Illyusha understands the chain of command, you know that, darling. We all do'.

He looked into her face and derived comfort from it. But what if they failed? How could Waverly put him in this position, and what sense did it make? The whole mission stank. He was convinced there was a second agenda here, an agenda that he was not part of. Perhaps Illya knew the agenda, and wasn't telling him. He certainly wanted to tell him something, but that would have to wait now. However, Sabi was right. There was no question of not obeying. But the reason had better be good. It had better be damned good.

xxxxxxxx

He didn't have to wait too long, although he had no idea of time in the cell.

When one had spent as many occasions as Illya had, lying on beds, or even on the floor, listening to the sounds of a prison, then the sound of someone approaching one's cell became unmistakable. Of course, it could be a three-course luncheon about to be served, but, as his stomach told him, that was about as unlikely as seeing Napoleon appear at the door instead of the guard. He didn't bother to get up, or even open his eyes. He had to get to the hospital, so the line of least resistance seemed the most sensible option.

He heard the door open, the usual thumping guards' sounds, and then some lighter footsteps coming towards him. He opened his eyes and found himself looking into the face of a woman - a doctor, perhaps; white coat, stethoscope, steel-rimmed glasses. The eyes behind the glasses were a glinting shade of blue-grey, almost colourless.

She looked tall from his position, but broad, with a mannish hairstyle which was hardly flattering. Into his mind floated the image of Tess – her delicate frame, her long, tawny hair; the very antithesis of the woman who leaned over him now. As he started to get up, she pushed him down with a thrust which any man would have been proud of, and jabbed a syringe into his neck. He sank back onto the bed unconscious, his hair falling away from his face.

She leaned over him, and pushed the hair away from his neck, checking his pulse with her fingers at the same time.

'Now your treatment can begin, Mr Kuryakin' she whispered in the ear turned towards her. She motioned to the guards and walked away.

xxxxxxxx

The room was quite small, and sparsely furnished, a typical medical examination room – with a difference. In place of the usual bed, Illya found himself lying on a thin sheet, covering something more akin to a dentist's chair. The other main difference was that when he went to the dentist's, he wasn't usually strapped down, and usually, he was clothed.

Well, at least he had regained consciousness, and seemed to have all his faculties intact. He felt vulnerable, cold, and hungry. His mouth was dry, and he licked his lips to try to make it better. He was aware of someone in the room, but they were behind him. He wriggled around, trying to loosen the strapping, but the noise alerted whoever it was that he was awake, and she appeared in front of him, the same doctor who had visited him in his cell. Of course.

'Ah, you're awake, Mr Kuryakin, good' she said, in a rather low-pitched voice. 'I've made a start, but if you refuse to cooperate, I'm afraid that I will have to give you something to make you more compliant'.

'I am not really in a position to be uncooperative, I fear' he replied, 'but I would appreciate not being quite so exposed, if you don't mind'.

'But I do mind, Mr Kuryakin. I need to examine you to ensure that you don't have anything hidden about yourself that might be damaging to Dr Fetting or his laboratory'.

Illya raised his eyebrows heavenwards at this. He noticed her name tag -

'Dr Winnifred Engel'. '_Angel? Unlikely', _he thought. He knew he would have to endure her prying fingers for a while, but eventually, she would have to turn him over. There might be a chance then. Accordingly, he lay on the chair impassively, while she poked and prodded any part of his body that she thought might be hiding something. He debated with himself which side of him was worse; supine, she had access to his genital region (_that will be hard to control, even with someone who looks like her)_; prone, she had access to his backside. He decided that the former position just about won out.

He glanced round the room while she worked on him, noticing a range of cupboards and a worktop with various surgical instruments arrayed on it. Next to the instruments he saw with great annoyance, was a thick lock of his own hair, tied with an elastic band. She must have taken it when he was unconscious.

'What possible use can my hair be to you?' he said, glaring at her. 'I can assure you that it hides no secret weapons, as far as I am aware'. She glared back at him, and touched the part of his head where the hair had been cut. _A really obvious part_, he thought.

'If you must know, Dr Fetting requested it. His exact words were, if I remember, 'it will be something for me to remember him with', she said.

He could tell that she was enjoying it all. Compared to other 'examinations' he had endured at the hands of women like her, this was fairly tame, relatively painless, and only moderately humiliating. Eventually, having found nothing, Dr Engel began to loosen the straps on his arms and ankles, in order to turn him over. He was a little surprised that she thought she could do this unaided, but, looking at her, he supposed that she considered herself a match for the slight Russian man lying on the couch.

As she loosened the last restraint, he swivelled his hip and aimed a hard kick with his foot, which served to unbalance her. Seizing the initiative, Illya jerked upright, and punched her directly in the face, apologising to her still form at the same time. After all, she was a woman. Just. He ran to the cupboards behind the chair, managing to find a surgical gown pack and some theatre shoes stuffed inside. He put on the gown and cap, stuffing his hair inside. At these moments, he decided, long hair was a pain. On the counter there were the surgical instruments; he helped himself to a scalpel – wondering at what Dr Engel might have wanted to do to him with the other instruments laid out.

Outside the room, the corridor appeared deserted. Illya realised that he would not get far in the theatre gown without attracting attention. He opened a few doors on the corridor, glancing into empty rooms similar to the one he had just left. At the end, he could see a small ward, with a couple of single bedded rooms before the main area. He suddenly realised that it was so quiet because it was nightime, probably the middle of the night. As if in response to this, his stomach began to growl.

He could see two nurses at the end of the ward, busying themselves with changing an IV drip. He crept into the first bay, closing the door silently behind him. A motionless form lay on the bed beside him, and he silently prayed that the person was a man. He pulled back the covers.

He gasped as he looked down at this poor man. He was obviously unconscious, but it appeared that this was just some sort of experiment into levels of consciousness, chemically induced for sure, judging from the IV drip attached to his skeletal arm. There was obviously no concern for the care of the individual. He looked severely malnourished, dirty even, his hair shaved to complete the look Illya had seen in photographs of prisoners from the concentration camps taken at the end of the war.

There was nothing Illya could do for this man except to stop all this, to stop _him _from perpetrating this living hell on these people. However, this man could help Illya, if he was lucky. He looked in a wardrobe that stood opposite the bed. Hung up, to his surprise, was a pair of trousers, a jacket and shirt, both more or less his size, and, at the bottom, a pair of shoes. Underwear was stuffed at the side, and a small canvas shoulder bag stood next to the shoes. He tore off the surgical gown and hat, and pulled on the clothes, just as he heard a siren begin to wail. He grabbed the bag and stood by the door.

'_She must have come round'_ he thought, and, grasping the scalpel, he stole out of the room. He looked down the corridor, back towards the room where he had been enjoying Dr Engel's attentions so recently. She was stood outside, holding a cloth to her nose, which was bleeding profusely, and clutching the cloth he had been lying on. Two very large Alsatian dogs, held back by guards, were sniffing the cloth. Illya closed his eyes and sighed. He hated dogs, especially the very large and hairy variety whose only aim was to get his neck between their jaws.

He had no choice. He ran down the ward, past the astonished nurses, and found a door on the left at the end. There was a small corridor running from the ward, with one door leading into what Illya supposed must be another examination room. Perhaps there would be a window in one of these that would give him access to outside. If he could hide somewhere for a while, then, he could contact Napoleon.

It was fortuitous that Dr Engel had not looked inside his mouth. He poked about at very back, unscrewing the wisdom tooth that had replaced the one he had had removed last year. That was another activity he could add to his hate list – going to the dentist. He pulled at the end of the tooth to reveal a tiny transmitter. Not as robust as the pen, but good in an emergency. Like now. He set it to transmit as he opened the first door silently. The room was in darkness, but there was no doubt it was a small laboratory. He recognised all the familiar apparatus from his lab in New York. There was another internal door leading, he supposed to the second room, presumably more labs. He could hear the sound of the dogs approaching the room. The other room might be safer to escape from, as he could probably lock the connecting door, which was the only way into the room. He very gently turned the handle of the door and entered. The room was very dark, but he could see from the moonlight, that there was a large black desk by the window. He went towards it, looking critically at the window to judge whether he could get through, and more importantly, get down safely.

Afterwards, he realised that the next events seemed to have occurred simultaneously. The second needle of the day in his neck, and a voice he knew well, a grating voice in his ear.

'Welcome to the beginning of the end of your life, Illya Nikovetch'.

As he crashed to the floor, the tiny transmitter fell out. Fetting's foot stamped on it, hard.

CHAPTER 9

April

Sabi pushed the neatly typed list of her qualifications and experience towards the doctor facing her across the desk. She thought her eyes seemed dead looking, colourless even. Sabi shuddered.

'Your record seems satisfactory Miss Schmidt. You understand the experimental nature of our work? Here, we are committed in serving science, to benefit the people. Here, we demand absolute commitment, absolute obedience – you understand that? Dr Engel looked at Sabi over the top of her glasses, appraising her.

'Completely Fraülein Doktor', Sabi replied.

She had been shown round the hospital wards, biting back her feelings about what she saw. But what she didn't see was any sign of Illya Kuryakin. She could hardly ask the very unpleasant woman sitting opposite her, if there were any blond Russian agents on the ward at the moment. This was a very dangerous place. She could not afford to spend much time here, as it would soon become obvious that she was not the trained nurse she was claiming to be. Still, in the meantime, she needed to get access to some of the rooms she had not been shown.

'Just one question, Doktor' she enquired. 'Would there be any possibility of working in the laboratories? I am very interested in pursuing my research interests, as I have indicated on my Curriculum Vitae'. She very much hoped that the doctor would not ask too many probing questions – all she needed was to see the inside of some of those rooms off the main wards - sooner, rather than later.

Doctor Engels looked genuinely interested, _in a mad sort of way_, thought Sabi. She had included some fake research interest in pharmacology in her CV. She had read up some papers about research into drugs for Schizophrenia, but if this doctor, or, even worse, Dr Fetting himself questioned her, then she would be in serious trouble.

However, for now, it had done the trick. Dr Engel agreed to show her some of the laboratories. They wandered through a couple of rooms, where white-coated lab technicians pored over microscopes. Sabi dreaded to think what they were looking at. On the way back, they passed a single door in a corridor, that was slightly ajar, revealing another, better appointed, laboratory. Dr Engels saw that she had noticed this room.

'This is Dr Fetting's suite of rooms, Miss Schmidt. I would like to introduce you to him, if he is available'.

She opened the door and went in. The room was indeed a well-appointed laboratory, with a connecting door to another room, where Sabi could see the figure of a man standing at a black desk, talking on the telephone. As he spoke, he turned slightly and momentarily glanced at her. Sabi tried not to cringe, looking away from him to avoid his gaze. Dr Engels pointed out the equipment in the lab, looking towards the study.

'I will just go to see if Dr Fetting is available, if you will just wait her for one moment' she said, a rather humourless smile barely changing her expression. 'I'm sure that he will be eager to discuss research protocols with you'. As soon as the doctor had left the room, Sabi got up and wandered round, glancing at the various papers and books lying scattered across the laboratory. She knew that her time here was now extremely limited. At once, something arrested her glance. Just poking out from a sheaf of papers, she could see the tips of some human hair. Blond hair. She pushed the papers aside. Her eyes closed momentarily as she steadied herself. It was quite a thick lock of hair, tied at one end. She knew immediately whose head that had come from. Looking around, she grabbed the hair, put it in her bag, and left the room quickly.

xxxxxxxxx

New York

May

Napoleon stared at the paperwork on his desk, picked up his pen, then put it down again and pushed the papers away. He reached across for a clean sheet of paper and began to make a kind of flow chart. The flow chart began in February, nearly three months ago. It seemed more like three years ago to him. He tried to write down the progress of the mission that had gone so spectacularly wrong, and resulted in his partner's complete disappearance. _As if he had never existed_ he thought. When he had returned to New York, he had confronted Waverly over what had happened, but he seemed more concerned with the continued tracking of Dr Fetting, rather than finding out what had happened to Illya.

'Mr Kuryakin is perfectly capable of taking care of himself – I'm sure he will surface at some point. And if he does not, then Mr Solo, you will have to consider finding another partner in the not too distant future'. He hadn't even looked up from the desk, where he seemed to be more interested in reading some report or other that Miller seemed to be supplying him with at every moment. Miller. What was his role in all this? At any rate, Waverly had forbidden him to have any further role in the affair, and had given him a mountain of paperwork to complete, just when he didn't have the assistance of his partner.

He reflected on the situation to date. Sabi had established that Illya had definitely been taken to Hohenschönhausen, and was definitely not in the hospital when she was taken round the wards and the labs. She had sent him the hair she had found, and he had had the labs compare it with some he took from a comb he had found in Illya's apartment. He opened his desk drawer and looked at the forlorn lock of hair enclosed in the plastic bag Sabi had sent. '_He will have been pissed about that', _he thought. He still felt confident that Illya was alive, although in what state, and more important, where, was a total mystery to him.

The shrill ring of the phone made him jump, and he slammed the drawer shut as he grabbed the receiver.

'Napoleon Solo' he answered, evenly. No doubt it would be another mountain of reports heading his way. However, it was not Miller this time, but their, his and Illya's, secretary, Carole.

'Napoleon, there's a girl on the phone, says she needs to speak to you urgently. I hope you're not making assignations in company time' she simpered.

Carole was a great secretary, but she was also looking for a husband, and they had both had to fend her off, each in their own individual ways. Napoleon had dated her a few times, but had made it clear by dating other girls at the same, that casual was the name of the game as far as he was concerned. She had tried harder with Illya, much to Napoleon's amusement. He had agreed to one date, only to find that this was to be an introduction to her parents as her boyfriend. Luckily for him, her parents had been duly horrified that her 'boyfriend' was a 'Ruskie beatnik' as her father had called him, and not the all American boy they had imagined as suitable husband material for their little girl. Both her parents and the two agents breathed a collective sigh of relief when she had started dating Cal Hannssen.

'Thank you, Carole, just page me through' Napoleon sighed, holding the receiver in his ear with his shoulder, while he searched for a pencil. The line clicked a few times, before a voice he had definitely heard before, spoke.

'Mr Solo? I don't know if you remember me. My name is Thérèse McCaffrey, you know, Illya's, um, neighbour?'

She was the last person he had expected to be speaking to. Instantly, his mind shot back to the front door of the house on Grove Street; of those two standing there. Then, of the conversation he had with Illya at the apartment in Berlin. What had he said then? '_even I seem to have got myself into a situation that I cannot control, namely being in love'_. Napoleon still felt faintly shocked at his partner's admission – so unexpected from the man whose emotions seemed so tightly controlled, they resembled the wall which had dominated their view in that divided city.

'Miss McCaffrey, of course I remember you. How can I help you?' He replied smoothly. He could sense her hesitation, but when she spoke, there was real determination too.

'I don't want to talk about it on the phone, but I have something to show you which I think you really need to see, and which perhaps, you can help me understand. When I spoke to Illya on the phone …'

Solo interrupted her. 'You spoke to Illya on the phone – when was that, if you don't mind me asking'.

'No, I . . er. . well he rang me, it must be nearly three months ago now. It was really early in the morning, and he apologised, so I presumed he was in Europe, although he wouldn't say where. I'm sorry, I thought he would have told you. He told me that if I needed to, I could ring you. And I do need to, I mean, I do need your help, please'.

Napoleon thought back. Illya had wanted to tell him something, and this would explain the reason why the phone had mysteriously been disconnected and re-routed. The Russian had taken a great risk to speak to her, knowing that he could be in serious trouble if he was discovered. And now she was ringing here, asking for his help.

'No problem, I'll just come round to your apartment if that's OK with you. This evening alright?'

She had readily agreed, and rung off. Within seconds, Carole was in his room, looking over his shoulder at the piece of paper he was writing on. He shoved it in his jacket pocket and swung round, nearly causing her to fall on top of him.

'Problem, Carole?' he enquired, innocently. He could see she was desperate to find out who the girl was, and her connection to him, but he wasn't giving. She made a face and flounced out of the room again, muttering something about foreigners. She must have registered that Therese was not American, but he wasn't telling her any more. She would just have to wonder.

For the rest of the day he tried to occupy himself with report writing, or making himself a nuisance down on the Eastern Europe desk. Since Illya had disappeared, he had made this visit a regular part of his day, but to no avail. He had spoken to Kat and Sabi on the phone on several occasions, but to all intents and purposes, the line to Illya Kuryakin was dead. Until now. Whatever the girl Therese had to show him, it must be something to do with Illya, and something upsetting too. He wished for the evening to arrive soon.

True to his word, Waverly had insisted that Napoleon begin to work with other agents, and had chosen Cal Hannssen as the most obvious candidate to replace Illya. Napoleon preferred to use the words 'stand in'. 'Replace' sounded too final, as if Illya wasn't coming back. As far as Napoleon was concerned, he most definitely was coming back, and the stand-ins better understand that.

Despite this, he decided not to tell Cal about his visit to Therese. In fact he decided not to tell anyone about it. As he walked along the familiar route to Grove St, he pondered why. Why was it that he felt he could trust no-one at UNCLE New York? He could see Illya shrugging his shoulders; well, _he_ never trusted anyone - except Napoleon of course.

He turned the corner of Bleecker Street deep in thought, only to be caught short at the sight of a woman walking immediately in front of him. She was of medium height, but with long, _beautiful _legs. She was a red-head, the striking colour of her hair accentuated by the cut of it. Solo, who prided himself on knowing what was up-to-date on all things woman, knew that this hairstyle was the latest geometric look called the 'five-point', having come straight from Vidal Sassoon in London. Her clothes complemented the smart hair; a very sharp suit, set off by elegant high-heels and an extremely expensive looking briefcase. She looked like someone you might meet at a conference giving the key-note speech. Someone you wouldn't like to challenge.

They continued up the road, one behind the other, until suddenly they found themselves heading for the same door. Napoleon nearly fell into her as she searched her bag for her keys. She spun round, looking him straight in the face. He was not disappointed. She was stunning, looked almost fiery, with the red hair, and flashing deep blue, almost mauve eyes.

'What's your problem, haven't got a home to go to?' she said, her eyebrows arching, and her head slightly cocked to one side in amusement at his discomfort. Her accent was unmistakable. Napoleon looked at her closely, and could see the family resemblance, but before he could reply, she was speaking again.

'Had a good eyeful, then, love?' Her eyes were flashing like amethysts in the evening light, and for the first time in living memory, Napoleon Solo was totally speechless. His mouth opened and closed but nothing came out. Eventually he managed to say something, although it sounded horribly pompous,

'I'm here to see Miss McCaffery in fact'.

'Well, you're looking at her, soft lad'.

'I .. I er mean Miss Therese McCaffery'.

'Oh, Miss _Thérèse_ McCaffery' she replied, a smile lighting up her face. She was obviously playing with him, but he couldn't seem to prevent it. She was playing with him, and she was winning. Before he had time to gather his thoughts, she was motioning him to come in, and they were in the basement kitchen of the apartment. She had kicked off her shoes in the corridor, as if she wasn't bothered in the slightest what he was thinking of her, and she continued to divest herself of clothing as she wandered round the room, filling a kettle and pulling a teapot towards the front of the work surface.

Eventually, she turned towards him, a penetrating look on her face. Napoleon couldn't help staring at her tightly fitting blouse, which showed off her figure to perfection, so he thought. As if she was reading his thoughts, she said,

'and you can stick your tongue in, chuck, I dress to please myself, not any man that fancies his chance'. Without drawing breath, she turned back, pouring the water into the teapot.

'Tea?' she said.

It seemed like a cliché to say that he had never met anyone like her before, but cliché or not, this was the case. It didn't seem to matter that she was abrupt to the point of rudeness - he would be happy to come back for more. As he was drinking his tea, he suddenly remembered the real reason he was here. He also realised that she was waiting for him to remember it – she had been ahead of him again.

'So, you're here to see my sister. I presume then that you're from U.N.C.L.E. and that it's over Goldilocks from upstairs' she said, putting down her cup. He noticed that the fooling around with him had seemed to stop when she mentioned Therese. 'You know she's completely besotted with him, don't you? After he called that time, she told me all about it, well, there wasn't that much to tell, but she spent ages telling me anyway. Then, of course, she didn't hear from him for weeks, and she started to worry. She was convinced something had happened to him. To be honest, I thought he'd lost interest, and I was ready to sort him out if he dared to make an appearance back here'.

Napoleon had a mental picture of this woman 'sorting out' Illya. It sounded ugly. On the other hand, the thought of being 'sorted out' by her began to sound rather attractive.

'Anyway' she continued, 'that was all put on hold, as it were, when she got this assignment in the Ukraine'. Napoleon's attention was immediately riveted. He decided to allow her to continue uninterrupted. 'She got this call, I presume from National Geographic, for an assignment about the Ukraine – a sort of overview of cities and people. It's quite a big project, and involves a couple of trips, I think. The first part was concerned with industry, particularly mining. You know how big the coalfields are there? I thought the Yorkshire coalfield was huge, but it's like an gnat's foreskin compared to that'. Solo gulped at the comparison. God she was fantastic.

'Well, all the necessary paperwork seemed to be sorted out in remarkably quick time, which amazed me. I seem to spend half my life trying to sort out legal minefields like this, if you'll excuse the pun'.

He wondered just what she did in the UN, but was too transfixed by the story, and her, to ask. An uncomfortable feeling was building in his gut that he didn't like at all.

'To cut a long story short' she went on, 'she flew out two weeks ago to one of the coalfields which is nearest to Kiev. When she returned, I knew something was wrong as soon as she came through the door. It was the usual thing, straight to the darkroom, but this time she looked terrible, really terrible. When she showed me the photos, and she told me what he had said to her, about contacting you, I told her to get in touch with your lot straight away'.

Napoleon's stomach was churning at the thought of exactly what or more like who, was going to be on the photographs taken by Thérèse. Once again, her sister was one jump ahead.

'You'd better go up and speak to her, and then you can start to sort it out, if you _can_ sort it out. I just hope he's worth it, that's all' she added. She opened the door and nodded her head towards the unmistakeable sound of a classical guitar being played in a room upstairs.

'She's doing that a lot at the moment' she whispered, 'while she tries to make sense of it all. She's tough, you know, Tessy is, but I won't have her messed around with'. Napoleon believed it. He walked silently up the stairs from the basement towards the beautiful music being played, Therese's sister following. The door was open to the room at the back of the house, and as he reached the threshold, he could see her sat by the French windows, playing. The fading evening light illuminated her hair, which had fallen in a long curtain across her face and shoulders as she played. She was wearing a loose white shirt over jeans, with a very wide belt skimming her hips. How different the two girls were, but he could see why his partner had been unable to help himself. She was beautiful.

The spell was broken by her sister making a discreet cough from behind his back. Therese looked up in surprise, then smiled. Napoleon could see immediately that something traumatic had happened to her. Her eyes held something deep within them, as if some terrible tragedy had not been resolved, and was working itself out on her face.

She stopped playing, and got up.

'Ah, you made it past my sister, and you're still in one piece. Congratulations Mr Solo' she said, with a wry smile. 'Now, I'm sure she hasn't bothered to introduce herself, so I'll do it. 'Napoleon Solo, may I introduce my sister, Josefina McCaffrey'.

For about the fifth time that evening Napoleon gulped. _Josefina! God no! _ Illya appeared before his eyes, saying 'Not tonight, Napoleon' .Josefina was laughing, quite loudly, to Napoleon's discomfort.

'You are having me on, aren't you? Napoleon? Were your mum and dad having a joke?' Napoleon squirmed. Surely she wasn't going to start on a round of 'Waterloo' jokes?

'Oh Joey, don't be so cruel. I think it's a very distinguished name, and it suits you, if you don't mind me saying,' Therese added, looking from one to the other. 'Of course, it's not quite as lovely or unusual as another name I might mention'. Napoleon smiled at this, knowing exactly who she was talking about, but it was shockingly obvious at the same time that her face had suddenly become strained and tears had appeared in her eyes, to be forced back just has hurriedly as they had come.

Therese walked over to the piano and picked up a large plastic folder that was lying on top. Without being asked, Jo had disappeared from the room, leaving them alone. The atmosphere in the room had changed, almost without him realising it. Therese sat down on the slightly battered leather sofa that looked out onto the little garden, now faintly glowing with colour in the summer evening gloom. Napoleon sat down and waited for her to begin.

'Did Joey tell you that I'd been to the Ukraine?' He nodded. She held the folder in her hands, reluctant to open it before telling her story. 'I was excited, well, quite amazed really, to get the assignment. I mean, my career is going well, I've done quite a lot of work for National Geographic and there's going to be a show of my work in a gallery soon; but this was big – I'd never been to a Soviet country before, and, well, I felt that somehow it would bring me closer to him'. She looked so sad, so strained, it was hard to listen to her without being affected by the strength of her emotion.

'The assignment concerned the country, trying to reflect its character; a portrait of its people' she explained. 'It's the sort of work I love. I love taking pictures of people, not like in a studio, but where they are, where they live, if you see what I mean'. She looked at him, willing him to understand what she meant. 'The job was in two parts; the second part in Kiev, a study of hospital workers; the first part to be …

'The coalfield, a study of mineworkers?' Napoleon answered, guessing what might possibly be shown on the photographs. Dreading seeing them.

'Yes, exactly. We were given permission to visit the Lesnaya mine – it's quite near Kiev, which is why, I suppose, they choose it. Have you ever been to the mining areas? Napoleon nodded again. He had worked inside the Ukraine a few times, but it was often without Illya. It was usually too difficult, too risky for his partner, and Waverly was sensitive to the fact. Used to be sensitive to the fact, until now, that is. He agreed with her that the landscape was dramatic, bizarre even. Man-made, conical mountains created from the waste from coal-production. Therese called them 'slag-heaps' – a perfect term.

She continued. 'We were accompanied everywhere by a government representative, and even the mines had political 'commissars'; officials who were always watching; controlling what was said'. She started to open the folder, continuing the story at the same time. 'They told us that I could take pictures of the miners set against the backdrop of the coalfield, and that we could talk to one or two of them. Apparently, one of the teams had chosen someone to meet us. I found out later that they thought I would like him, because he was young and good looking'.

As she continued to relate the story, Therese could feel once again the sights and sounds of the coal mine at Lesnaya; it was as if she was there again in the area she was standing in, waiting for the miners to emerge from the pithead at the end of their shift. The winding gear of the pithead started to spin, a sign that the cage was ascending from the 1,800ft deep underground seam where they worked. A siren sounded, and the cage clanked to a standstill, disgorging twenty or so men, their eyes seeming to stand out from the grime of their faces; laughing and jostling each other as they headed for the shower block. She hadn't seen him then, hadn't recognised him. How could she? He was the last person she expected to see emerging from a mineshaft in the middle of the Ukrainian coalfield.

She had taken some pictures as they emerged, and it was only later that she had been able to pick him out. They had returned to an office, more like a hut really, where she was to be given the opportunity to take photos, to talk to them. Therese was hoping that the Russian she had been making so much effort to learn over the last few weeks would come in handy; that she wouldn't have to rely on the interpreter too much. If they spoke Ukrainian, she would be done for.

She would never forget, would _never_ forget for the rest of her life, her first sight of him as he walked through the door of the hut. She had been told that his name was Valentin Rostov, a Ukrainian who had been working at Lesnaya for a short time, although he had made very good progress, and had been promoted recently. She heard footsteps on the gravel outside the door, then a polite knock, and suddenly he was standing in front of her, cap in hand, looking rather awkward and embarrassed. She had gasped, clutching her throat, and he had stepped forward to prevent her from falling. She had whispered his name, '_Illya'_, but he had stepped back, a look of utter incomprehension on his face.

'You are mistaken, Miss. My name is Rostov. Valentin Illich Rostov'.

She wondered afterwards how she had managed to stay sane during the conversation that followed. The political commissar continued to stare at her, but she became determined, even desperate to talk to him. He had told her that he had worked here for a short time, having been a labourer at a steel works previously. He considered himself lucky to work here, as his comrades were good to him, and he had recently started working on setting and carrying out controlled explosions inside the mine. 'I seem to have a natural ability' he had said. He had added that his education was basic, but that he was glad to serve the state. The political commissar had smiled at this.

He spoke in pretty basic Russian, apologising for this, and saying that languages were difficult for him. '_Oh no they're not' _she had thought. He had told her finally that he was not married, but that there was someone who was interested in him. If they married, then they would get a bigger apartment. He was thinking about it. Therese had felt sick.

She drew out the photographs from the folder. The first few were the scenes of the shift party leaving the pithead. A hard, cold feeling clutched at Napoleon's heart as he located the younger looking figure amongst the other, older and burlier ones leaving the cage. Her hand shook as she pulled out the next set.

They were pretty unmistakeable. He looked tougher, more muscular somehow, but that wasn't really surprising. The work of a miner was extremely hard, physical activity, guaranteed to build up a physique like the one in the photos. His hair was different. Cropped close, about an inch long, probably shorter at the sides and back. It made him look incredibly young, boyish. Napoleon saw Therese run her finger down the side of his face, as if she was establishing contact with him. They looked at each other, not really having to make any comment. The eyes looked steadily out from the photograph; calm, slightly quizzical, Napoleon thought.

'It could be an almighty coincidence' he said, 'or . . .

'Napoleon, when I wrote my phone number on his hand, do you remember? I noticed something'. Napoleon knew immediately what she was going to say. The year before, they had been on a mission to Mexico. A THRUSH sadist called 'El Niño' – '_The boy'_ had stuck a knife through the Russian agent's wrist, pinning him to a table, and nearly causing him to bleed to death. He had managed to effect a patch-up job after Illya had pulled the knife out himself. It made him cringe to think about it. The incident had left a scar however, quite noticeable, on the top of his wrist.

'The scar', she continued, 'that man, Valentin, he had an identical scar on the top of his wrist. You know it's ironic' she said, 'when I spoke to him on the phone, I asked him to send me a photo, so that I could think of him. I have that photo now, don't I?'

As if worn out by the account of the meeting, she lay back on the sofa, her eyes almost closed. Napoleon got up and began to pace the room, his mind spinning like a top. He turned round to face her.

'You mentioned that there was a second part to your assignment. Is that still going to take place?' he said.

'Yes, quite soon, I believe'. She had sat up, quite upright, and was looking straight at him. Her eyes seemed to swirl round and then light up. 'Napoleon', she whispered, 'Is there some way, there must be some way that we can find him. But why is he pretending to be someone else?'

'He's not pretending. Someone, for whatever reason, is controlling him, causing him to think he is someone else. I don't think he can help it. I am pretty certain I know who that person is, but what I'm not certain about, is how he's doing it', Napoleon replied.

She stood up and came up close to him. 'One thing' she said, 'that really puzzled me, was what he said about his medical condition. I didn't know Illya had a medical condition', she said.

'What medical condition? I can tell you now that he doesn't have a medical condition that I know of' he said, his brow furrowed in thought.

'He told me that he had been very ill with diabetes, so ill, that he couldn't now remember some of the events of his childhood and past life'. _Very convenient_, Napoleon thought. The whole fiasco connected with Illya's possible diagnosis of diabetes before he went to Berlin, came back to Solo. Was this connected?

She continued, 'He said that he had been chosen for a drugs trial which controlled the condition, and which he only needed to take once a week, by injection. He was really pleased, and said that the doctor he saw at the mine, had recently given him another trial drug, which he had to take less frequently, although he had to be very careful not to forget to give himself the shots at the exact time every fortnight' she added.

'Did he say who this doctor was?'

'No, not a name, but he described him to me. He said he felt a bit sorry for him, because he had been very badly burnt in a fire'.

_So he was there. _

Napoleon leaned against the wall. God, it was evil. Illya had been so conditioned that he was actually administering the means of his own control, himself. There was, of course, only one individual sick enough to think up that. He couldn't help but wonder, however, why he hadn't just killed Illya in Berlin. Of course. Illya was a very useful guinea pig for something that was going to be used for some evil purpose not entirely clear to Napoleon at that point. What was worrying him more, though, was that when the experiment had been carried out, when the drug had been proved to work, what then for the guinea pig?

'Therese, I have to get to this place very soon, if we are to have any hope of saving Illya' he said. 'For reasons I can't really explain to you now, I don't want to involve the U.N.C.L.E. office here in New York, but I think if we make a little detour via Germany, we may be able to get some help. However, if you do not want to be involved, I will understand' he said, looking seriously at her.

'Napoleon, I was worried you were going to try and stop me being involved' she replied, smiling tiredly. She picked up the pictures.

'I always said I could do with an assistant' she said to him. 'Know anything about cameras?'

CHAPTER 10

May

The clinic was barely adequate, he thought, for the men that it served, but what did that matter. A substandard facility, for a substandard race. That idiot Schleicher had, for once, managed the arrangements here reasonably efficiently, and the authorities were happy to comply with his 'tests' for the fee they had received in return.

Fetting picked up a phial of straw-coloured liquid, a smile like a slash changing the expression of the destroyed face. Schleicher had been useful in making sure that Kuryakin was delivered to him, but now his usefulness was at an end. Unbeknown to that drivelling fool, the deep sleeper was in place at UNCLE New York and had been for some time.

As far as Kuryakin was concerned, the little accident that had been planned for him could now take place, and the Russian vermin would lie permanently underground - just another victim of the alarmingly high mine accident rate in this vile country. Fetting smiled, but in appearance it was more like an ugly red gash than anything approaching a smile.

However, he couldn't resist one final meeting. Then he could leave for somewhat warmer climes, safe in the knowledge that _he _was no more. When vermin came near, extermination was always necessary. He got up from his desk when he heard the outer door of the medical suite open, and a chair leg scraping on the wooden floor; the Russian came in and sat down in the waiting room.

Fetting looked through the glass window of the door at him sitting there. Illya Nikovetch Kuryakin now come to this; a dirty miner, grubbing away underground; swilling vodka every evening like all those sub-human Slavs did; for all he knew, fucking every woman he could lay his drunken hands on. But as he looked at the man sitting there, a feeling of annoyance, growing to dissatisfaction, began to grow in his mind.

The capture of the Russian agent had been relatively smooth, only slightly punctured by his attempted escape. Winnifred had underestimated his Slavic cunning, and had paid for it with a broken nose; however, it was quite satisfying that he had walked straight into Fetting's own laboratory, the place where he was to end up anyway, to begin his treatment.

He had expected him to put up more resistance; perhaps to scream and cry; even to beg for mercy like the others. The loading dose of the drug always resulted in extreme nausea – an unpleasant side-effect which Fetting had not been able to prevent, even if he had wanted to. Kuryakin was no different, but had borne this rather distressing condition in total silence. Similarly, the combination of the drugs and the brain-washing had resulted in much shouting and sobbing amongst the others, as slowly their personalities began to disintegrate, their fear heightened by a total awareness of what was happening to them. Kuryakin had remained completely calm throughout, seemingly focused on something or someone, to the point that the technicians became very nervous around him, and Fetting had to order them to work. Whether he was thinking of the American, or of someone else, Fetting didn't know, but it was infuriating that he, after all this trouble, could derive such little pleasure from the man's suffering.

But eventually Kuryakin had succumbed, because the drugs were too powerful even for his mind. It was enjoyable to take his gifts from him one by one; his powerful scientific mind; his languages; his musical ability. All gone now, buried somewhere, not to be let out, like a dangerous animal. It had given Fetting pleasure, as Illya Kuryakin slipped away, to hint to him who in UNCLE was already in place, waiting for their orders; waiting to destroy UNCLE from the inside out.

Annoyingly, he had received reports that the man he had created, Valentin Illich Rostov, was achieving something, even in this hellhole. He had actually been promoted for quick thinking and aptitude. Fetting slammed the papers down he was holding, making the man in the waiting room look up suddenly.

'You'd better come in' he barked, turning on his heel in front of the startled miner. He ordered him to go behind the screen and strip, so that he could examine him. When he returned, Fetting looked him up and down, and began to listen to his chest with his stethoscope. Rostov, as Fetting liked to call him now, looked very fit, although he could hear that his lungs were already being affected by the hot, dusty atmosphere of the mines. He told him to sit down, so that he could take a blood sample.

'How are you feeling with the new formula – you are remembering to administer it exactly as I told you?' he said.

'Yes, the watch you gave me is a great help. And it's a lot easier only being every two weeks.'

Fetting looked down at the Russian. His physique; the blond hair, cut so short now, and the blue eyes; well, he could have passed for a member of the '_herrenvolk,'_ the master race, if one did not know. Fetting's irritation grew. This was not how it was intended to be. Rostov had on the watch that Fetting had given him. It was amusing to see how much he valued it. If he but realised that it would be the means of his destruction, he wouldn't be quite so attached to it, Fetting thought.

'You can go now. Report back here in one month'.

The Russian changed back into his clothes and left the building. Fetting watched him walking across the yard towards the mine buildings, getting ready to start his shift, he supposed. Well, it would be one of his last. He shrugged and turned away.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Alexander Waverly put down the pipe he had been nursing, and sat down in his favourite armchair. The house was an oasis of calm for him after the constant, hectic noise of Manhattan, and the strain of daily life at UNCLE. He reflected on his life as one of contrasts like this – his working life and his home life running for years on parallel lines; occasionally meeting for social events, but generally, two separate tracks.

This was mainly due to the influence of his wife, Dorothy. They had met during the war, both working for the SOE in London; he, being ten years older, as the controller, she as an agent working in France. He remembered her from those years; she was tall and willowy then, with brown curly hair that complemented her round, happy face. Somehow, by good luck rather than judgement, she survived, and they had married as soon as they could when the war ended. She was happy then to retire from active service, to concentrate on supporting his career and bringing up their three children. When he had told her they were to move to New York she had taken it in her stride, as he expected. They had bought this house on Long Island in '53 and lived in it ever since. She had re-created England here; the country house furnishings, the herbaceous border in the garden, Earl Grey tea; everything quintessentially British.

As if to complement his dreams, she came in now, carrying a tray of tea, a small plate of rich tea biscuits provided to supplement the drink. He looked up and smiled. She was still elegant, her hair showing only a little grey, her smart twinset and skirt so terribly English still.

She placed the tea tray down carefully beside him, and sat down, giving him a penetrating look. She may have looked like the perfect English wife, but he knew that she was also highly intuitive and intelligent, and could read him easily.

'Penny for them, Alexander?'

'What?'

'You are worried about something. Do tell, otherwise we will have it all evening'. She was right of course, there was little point in denying it, and he never tried.

'I am afraid, my dear, that I may have entrusted Mr Solo with a task that is even beyond his remarkable talents'.

Her eyebrows rose slightly.

'Oh I don't think so, dear; he is a very resourceful man, and even though he doesn't really understand what you are up to, I am sure that he will work out what to do, won't he?'

It was remarkable how she had somehow divined what was happening.

'Don't look like that at me, Alex, I had a long chat with that lovely young man Mr Fernandes, when he called round with that package yesterday. Lovely manners'.

Waverly sat back, shaking his head. Did nothing happen without her knowing it?.

She continued 'And I suppose poor Illya Kuryakin is somewhere not very nice again. You know I worry about that poor boy. It's a good job that I suggested he buy that apartment Marisa told me about. I thought he might take an interest in that tomboy daughter of hers'.

'I didn't know you were in touch with the McCafferys?'.

'No dear, that doesn't surprise me.'

He had momentarily forgotten that his wife, and Valentine and Marisa McCaffery, were fellow agents during the war, all about the same age. Val had been a strikingly handsome man. He had met his wife, Marisa, in Spain during the Spanish Civil War, bringing her back to England when war broke out in Europe.

He remembered meeting them in London; they had arrived from Spain with virtually nothing, except a baby girl of course. Marisa McCaffery was as beautiful as her husband was handsome. She had the fairer skin of most Mallorcans, with lovely reddish brown hair and flashing brown eyes. She was completely devoted to her husband, and had accepted her exile in England with equanimity, contriving to bring up her five children as well as studying for a degree. They had stayed in Liverpool to this day, the life and soul of the University community; he as Professor of Music, and she in the Modern Languages department. They were a remarkable couple, and the family seemed to be following in their footsteps.

'I thought that daughter of theirs was a confirmed workaholic with no time for men'.

'No dear, that's Josefina. It's Thérèse I'm talking about; you know, one of the twins. Marisa was telling me that three of them are now in New York'.

'What, all three daughters? I thought one was a nun!'

'No, Alexander, not Luisa. She's in England. It's Gabriel that's in New York. You know, Thérèse's twin, the priest'.

'I don't know how you remember it all, Dorothy. I have difficulty in keeping up with the antics of our own children and grandchildren, never mind anyone else's'.

'Well that's why you have me, dear. Now, make sure you don't wait too long to explain to Mr Solo just what is going on, will you?'.

'No dear'.

'And make sure you get Mr Kuryakin back in one piece so he can marry Therese, won't you dear?' she murmured, as she got up and went out of the room.

'What? Oh, yes dear' he said, closing his eyes. He could have sworn she said something about Kuryakin and marriage. He must have been hearing things.

xxxxxxxxxx

Valentin Rostov rammed the hard hat on his head, checking the battery light was working first. He put his sandwich box inside his canvas bag, together with as much water as he could carry. The ventilation in the shaft was so poor sometimes, that drinking was of far greater importance than eating. He checked his equipment before heading out towards the cage at the pithead.

The team were waiting for him, signalling him to hurry up. He could see Gregor making a place ready next to him for the drop down the shaft. They had been friends from the first, when the others had made it so hard for him, forcing him to endure days of working in total silence, at best ignored, at worst laughed at and ridiculed for his early mistakes. However, despite his slight build, he had proved himself to be tough and strong, learning fast, and enabling them to meet, then exceed their production targets week by week.

He supposed it had been because of this, that they had chosen him to talk to the girl. Most of the older men were married, and even Gregor was engaged to Anya, who would have been furious if she had found out he was talking to a strange woman. Only Valentin was unattached, although Anya's friend Elena was very keen. Gregor had introduced him to her, and they had gone out together a few times. She was not a particularly good-looking girl, but Gregor had assured Valentin that she would make him a very good wife, and that when they married, they would be entitled to a bigger flat than the tiny one he, Gregor, and two other men shared now. It seemed that his whole life was planned out for him. Working in the mine, and, if he was lucky, surviving uninjured. To have some sort of home life with a wife and children. It didn't seem so bad.

It was a very strange meeting, he thought. He had been told by the Commissar that he would be allowed to answer questions, just a few, on his personal life, and a little about working at the mine. He didn't really know what to say about himself, because, due to his illness, the past was very hazy, and if he spent too long trying to remember, it made feel extremely sick, so he stopped trying.

He tried to smarten himself up in the shower room before he went over to the hut where the foreigners were. He glanced at himself in the mirror as he was going out. He supposed he looked quite strong for his size; the work certainly made sure of that. He made his way across the yard, feeling more nervous as he came closer, and then knocking politely before entering.

He was immediately struck by her, in fact the memory of her was so vivid, that it remained permanently etched in his mind. She was quite slight really; wearing trousers, but not the baggy working trousers that most women wore at the mine. Her clothes fitted her well, and she had a lovely blue jacket which complemented her hair. Valentin marvelled at it; tied back in a ponytail, it swished round her head as she leaned over to adjust the light meter on her camera. Quite simply, he had never seen anyone like her before.

But, for some reason, the sight of him deeply affected her, as if she had received some terrible shock, and it was all connected with someone called_ Illya_. He imagined, from his patronymic, that his father must have been called this name, but he had no memory of him, or of any member of his family. Apart from this, he couldn't think of any other Illya that he knew. He concluded that it was just a case of her mistaking him for another man. Strangely, she seemed to want to know, in fact, had an urgent need to know everything about him.

He ended up telling her about his illness, and how the doctor at the medical unit had helped him with the new drug. She seemed puzzled by this, but Valentin didn't really understand it either; after all he was no scientist, was he?

She seemed reluctant to let him go, touching his arm as if to hold him there a little bit longer, but the Commissar had begun to glare at him, so he thanked her for her interest and left. Since then, she had been on his mind, and try as he might, the memory of that meeting remained with him constantly. He told himself that this was absurd, that it was affecting his relationship with Elena, who he dared not tell what had happened. After all, what was the likelihood that he would ever see her again?

Gregor interrupted his thoughts by digging him in the ribs, as the cage began to drop towards the shaft below.

'Valentin, you couldn't do me an almighty favour, could you? I find myself in a little spot of bother, and I was wondering whether you could . .'

'What have you done now?' Valentin replied, his lips pursed. Gregor was a bit of a madcap, and had been in trouble with the police on several occasions, usually after having a few too many vodkas.

'Um, I was caught going a little too fast again in my car. I have to take my papers into the police station after work, and I was wondering . . .'

'If you could borrow mine instead?' Valentin knew he would ask sooner or later. Gregor could be in serious trouble if he was found to be breaking the law again. Valentin was not known to the Police, so Gregor, as Valentin guessed, was angling to 'borrow' his papers for the visit to the police station. Luckily, their photographs were not on them.

'If you will promise me not to get into any further trouble, you can have them – but only once, you understand?'

'Absolutely, comrade. You are a true son of the Soviet Union, a hero of the people!' Gregor's grinned, his teeth showing up in the gloom of the shaft. They managed to exchange the papers before the cage finally clanged to the bottom, and they clambered out to make their long journey to the coal face to begin work.

It was a considerable distance to the coal face from the bottom of the shaft, a fact that made working conditions almost unbearable at times. Many of the men worked in almost next to no clothing, and even then, they were soon covered in sweat from head to toe. Valentin's long hair had soon become unbearable in this torrid atmosphere. The more cavernous tunnels where the wagons carrying the men rolled along, soon gave way to much narrower spaces, and in these areas, it was only possible to mine the coal by hand, rather than using the larger cutting machinery.

Valentin looked at his watch. It was a Russian make, and had a luminous face and dials; particularly useful in the dark places he spent most of his days. He preferred to administer his injection at home, but this wasn't always possible since the doctor had insisted it be taken at precisely the right time. Unfortunately, today this would be during his shift, so he had been forced to bring the syringe and ampoule with him in his shoulder bag.

Valentin forced the thought of the injection out of his mind, and occupied himself with the task in hand. This was rather a long seam, and it was proving very tricky to extract the coal from the strata of rock running alongside. In the last few weeks, he had been receiving training in setting controlled explosions to release the coal, and Anatoly, his supervisor, who was a man seldom given to praise, had congratulated him on what he considered to be Valentin's 'natural ability' with explosives. He was taken aback by the praise, as he knew he had never worked with explosives in any previous job he had done. In fact, he was surprised he had any real gifts at all. Somehow, in his head, he seemed to hear a voice saying over and over again, 'you are an uneducated man, without any gifts or talents'. Well, perhaps that voice was wrong after all.

He searched round for his water bottle where he was working, until he remembered that he had given his bag, including the precious watch, to Gregor to look after, while he set the charges. The other miners had been ordered to stand clear; some, including Gregor, were further away along the seam, while about half a dozen remained nearby with Valentin, waiting to clear the debris.

He placed a very small amount of explosive in the rock, making sure that there was no danger of a roof fall-in, which would almost certainly be fatal if it occurred. He ran the leads away from the explosive towards where the six men were standing with the plunger. They were chatting amongst themselves, not really looking what he was doing.

One of the men handed him the plunger, and he began to wire it up. A tremendous blast lit up where they stood, temporarily deafening the miners, followed by a deep, resonant rumbling sound coming from further along the shaft. The whole ceiling shook, clouds of dust spewing from tiny cracks in the roof. Valentin dropped the detonator in amazement and shock. He stared down at it, knowing that he had not been responsible. The blast had come from further down the seam; from where the others were.

The other miners had rushed past him and were scrambling along the seam to find the men trapped at the further end. He hurriedly disconnected the wires, and removed the explosive from the rock, before joining them, coughing and spluttering, where they stood before a huge rockfall blocking the seam completely from their side. Some of the men were frantically scrabbling with tools or just with bare hands to remove the rocks, boulders and pieces of coal from the fall, but they could see it was a hopeless task. One by one, they became silent, standing there almost like rocks themselves, frozen in horror at the entombment in front of them.

After what seemed like an eternity, they heard the alarms ringing further along the tunnels. By now the sirens signalling a mining disaster would be sounding, presaging a rescue team. The men standing there knew that for their comrades beyond the rockfall, this would just be an identification of the dead, for the sake of grieving relatives.

The dust from the ceiling had continued to fall, but in their grief and shock, no-one had noticed this until, with horror, they heard again the deep rumbling sound heralding a rock fall. It seemed that in the instant they realised it, it had happened, and with a low, screeching sound, the ceiling behind them gave way. As the dust cleared, the reality of their predicament began to dawn upon them. They were indeed buried alive.

Valentin sat down, feeling rather dizzy. The others looked at him and then at each other in understanding of what they thought he might be feeling.

'Take heart, comrade, we are alive' one of them said. 'However, whether we survive this will be down to whether they think we are alive, and how quickly they get to us before . . .'

'The air runs out' replied Valentin, leaning his head back against the cool rock of the tunnel. In response to this thought, he involuntarily took a few deep breaths. A wave of nausea rippled through him, forcing the contents of his stomach into his mouth. He retched, spewing out what was mainly watery mucus onto the floor of the cavern. One of the other men knelt down and lifted up his face, looking at him with concern.

'Are you alright, Valentin Illich? Where is your medicine? Do you need to take it?' With a sickening feeling growing inside, Valentin remembered. The injection; the injection was with Gregor. It was on the other side of the major rockfall that had almost certainly killed his dearest friend and comrade.

Fighting back the nausea growing inside him, Valentin forced himself up on his feet and turned to the other men, who were huddled together near the rockfall.

'Don't worry about me. I'm fine, or I will be when we get out of here.

I don't know about you, but I am not going to sit here and wait to die. I have an idea'. The others stared at him, looks of resignation and disbelief sweeping over their faces like the dust from the roof, which continued to fall softly on their heads as they stood there.

'And what, pray, is your grand idea, Valentin Illich?' said the oldest man, Viktor. 'It had better be little short of miraculous to get us out of here'. The rest of the men began to laugh, more out of nervousness than amusement.

'I still have the explosive and the detonator from before the blast. Contrary to what some of you thought, it was not me that caused the explosion. Look.' He indicated the unused explosive, wires and detonator that he had removed before the second blast had occurred.

'If I set it right, I think that we could blow a hole through this fall, at least enough to be able to get through, or at least get some more air' he said. 'Of course, you will have to trust me to set it right, otherwise I'm afraid we may very well join our comrades in the next cavern'.

The other men looked at each other. Viktor shrugged his shoulders. 'We have very little to lose, so I say that Comrade Rostov here should be allowed to proceed. All in agreement?' The others nodded silently, and immediately Valentin set to work, placing the explosives. After a while, he drew back, unwinding the wires towards the detonator.

'I would suggest that you stand as far back as possible, comrades, and cover your ears' Valentin remarked, with his hand on the detonator, 'as, of course, I am not entirely sure what is going to happen in the next minute'. He smiled at them in encouragement, then turned and pressed down the detonator.

A small, sharp explosion seemed to happen in the midst of the rock fall, sending rocks and coal in all directions. The miners flattened themselves against the walls to avoid being hurt by these missiles, or by the increasing dust and debris coming from the roof. When the dust cleared, a hole, small, but enough to climb through, was evident in the wall of rock and coal in front of them. The others ran toward it, then ran back towards Valentin, clapping him on the back and hugging him until he begged them to stop. A sudden noise in the tunnel urged them into thinking about leaving, and, beginning with Viktor, they thrust themselves through the rocks, heaving and shoving until, one by one, they disappeared into the black hole beyond the wall.

Valentin was the last to leave. The nausea that had afflicted him earlier, had abated somewhat, but it had left him with a persistent, dizzy headache which made it hard for him to concentrate. As he started to climb through the hole, he began to be aware of images swirling through his mind, images which seemed alien, unconnected to his life. Most confusing of all was the image of the girl who had photographed him. Her image rushed up into his mind, but the background of the hut had somehow been switched. She was standing in a doorway, looking at him, writing something down. Most confusing of all, the image of the scene turned around to show himself; but not as Valentin, no; this man had his face, but everything else about him looked somehow different.

As he forced his way through the hole in the rock, Valentin felt it give slightly. A number of rocks seemed to fall away, making it slightly easier for him. He could see the others waiting for him a few yards away, a look of eagerness to be gone showing on their faces. Suddenly, he became aware of their expressions changing; to consternation, as if they could see something he couldn't. They rushed back, but it was too late. The hole had started to become unstable, and before he could clear the wall, it collapsed, showering him with rubble.

Several of the miners let out a strangled cry and began to clear the rocks from round Valentin's body. As they worked, they became aware of other voices than their own in the distance, shouting, hailing them from afar. However, their one focus was to free the still body from his prison of rocks. At last they were able to clear enough away to gently drag him from the base of the wall, in time for a stretcher to be brought up by his side. Oleg, the tallest and heaviest man of the group, thrust the others aside, and gently lifted Valentin onto the stretcher as easily as if he were a child who had fallen asleep in front of the fire and was being put to bed without being woken.

The side of his head was bleeding profusely, and a makeshift bandage was applied to the head injury. The medical team had given him a cursory examination before moving the stretcher, and splinted his right arm. The little procession slowly wound its way along the tunnel, eventually reaching the mineshaft, the other miners anxiously looking at the stretcher, then at each other in turns, too shocked to say anything.

The crowd pressed forward as the cage reached the top of the shaft, and the six men, like pallbearers, came out surrounding the stretcher on which lay the injured man, his head covered with bandages, in stark contrast to the filth and grime which covered the rest of his body. They had remained standing there for another hour, until the bodies were brought up. The crowd uttered a collective groan, then seemed to turn, as a large notice was pinned to the side of the medical centre building. It read 'Provisional list of missing and dead'. People began to surge forward to read the list, but held back when the doctor with the terrible disfigurement appeared from a doorway, striding over to see the notice.

They saw him peruse the list, running his finger down the list of names, then stopping at one. He turned immediately and went into the centre, slamming the door. It was a long list, but he had seen the name he was looking for – _Valentin Illich Rostov, aged 29_. _Dead._

CHAPTER 11

New York

May

Central Park was heaving with New Yorkers enjoying themselves, as only they knew how. The zoo was filled with the high-pitched noises of children excitedly rushing from one place to another, shouting enthusiastically, seeking approval from the accompanying adults that this was indeed the best thing they had ever seen . . . until they saw the next thing.

Napoleon sat on a bench near the penguin enclosure. He had been known to enter the cool, dark interior of this place on a particularly hot day, with a particularly nice girl in tow for preference. Today, he was on his own, waiting for a very different companion to arrive.

He saw the familiar figure ambling along the path towards him, pipe in hand; to an observer, the very picture of a grandfather out for a Sunday constitutional. Except that this grandfather had come to see him in a place where there were no observers to listen or overhear what they might say.

'Ah, Mr Solo, there you are. Beautiful day isn't it?' Waverly remarked, as if they were old friends meeting by chance.

'Um, yes sir. Beautiful.' '_Get on with it' _he thought, _'I've got a plane to catch'._ Waverly turned to him, looking at him for a few seconds before looking ahead again.

'Do you trust me, Mr Solo?'

Napoleon's brow furrowed. What on earth was he on about?

'Well, sir, I've always carried out your instructions; we both have.'

'That's not the same. I asked whether you trusted me' Waverly replied, looking penetratingly at him.

'Yes, sir. I do trust you, but I have to admit that at the moment, I don't understand you, I mean, I don't understand what is going on . . . with Illya I mean, with finding him'. Waverly was conscious of his wife's words the afternoon before; _'make sure you don't wait too long to explain to Mr Solo just what is going on, will you?' _

'I presume you are going to make some effort to rescue Mr Kuryakin then?' Napoleon's mouth gaped slightly, then he shut it and sat back.

'Well, er . . .I'

'And that you are involving Miss McCaffery in this, to give you an '_entrée_' into the Ukraine?'.

'Excuse me, sir, but how did you know about Miss McCaffery? I .. I..'

Waverly smiled slightly, looking at the agent in an amused way.

'Let us just say, Mr Solo, that I am aware of more things than you realise, but you will have to trust me for now. Hopefully, if you are successful in your mission, all will be revealed. However, all I can say is that it is absolutely vital that your work is kept secret from anyone, I repeat _anyone_ at U.N.C.L.E. New York office. If you need to contact me for any reason, please do not use Channel D, but contact me directly through Channel W. Do you understand?

'Absolutely, sir'

'Now, I presume that you are engaging the services of the admirable Miss Tereschenko and her estimable colleague in this endeavour?'

Oh, yes, absolutely. Kat . . I mean Miss Tereschenko has a number of contacts which may mean the difference between success and failure'

'Well you had better run along and collect Miss McCaffery then – I'm sure Mr Kuryakin would be glad if you didn't take too long, either'. Waverly's mood, seemingly quite affable until that moment, quite suddenly changed. His face became serious, drawn even; he looked straight at Solo and murmured,

'I do not mean to put pressure on you, Mr Solo, but may I say that it is absolutely vital that we get Mr Kuryakin back here. Alive, Mr Solo, Alive'.

xxxxxxx

Therese checked the silver case containing her cameras and films for the third time. She glanced at her watch, staring out into the garden. The dappled sunlight cast shadows on the gravel, and gave the colours of the flowers and vegetables an intense hue. Images of Mallorca immediately came to mind; of many childhood holidays spent at her grandparents' house in Pollensa; of the mountains and the beaches, the dark smoky churches, and the intense heat and colour of the Mediterranean island.

She pictured herself there with Illya, imagining him in the places she loved; walking in the coolness of the mountains towards Formentor; sitting, drinking Margaritas in the Club de Pollensa in the town square. Did he drink Margaritas? She realised she had no idea what he liked to eat or drink – the little intimate, personal things that couples knew about each other. She didn't want to fall into the trap of thinking because he was Russian he ate and drank Russian things; what else did Russians do, anyway? She gave a deep sigh, and felt tears stinging her eyes again.

She sat on her suitcase and pulled her thick plait towards her, absent-mindedly biting the ends.

'I know I said it was too long, but you don't need to bite it off'.

Her sister walked up to her and stood there, stroking the top of Therese's head. She had done this when Therese was a child; stroking her younger sister's head when the little girl was sad. Therese got up and they stood together, looking out into the deepening gloom of the garden.

'I know he's important to you, Tessy, but you're important to me, right? Don't let soft lad lead you up the garden path, will you?'

'Don't call Napoleon that, Joey, he's very sensitive underneath the smooth act, and he doesn't get your scouse sense of humour – not yet, anyway.'

Jo gave the kind of superior look she put on when she was describing a lot of men she knew.

'I could say a lot worse – I'm sorry, but he looks just like the sort of man who carries around a little black book noting girls' telephone numbers in it, and then when he rings you, you're supposed to be grateful.'

'Little green book'

'What?'

'Little green book. Illya told me that it was green.'

'Oh great, he confirms all my suspicions' she replied, walking up and down rapidly, her mauvy eyes flashing in the twilight of the room.

'I bet you fancy him, anyway, whatever you say' teased Therese. 'I think he's just your type – clever, handsome, got a good flat, good job, good in . . . – shall I go on? You can't tell me you don't find him attractive?

Jo turned round and faced her sister – in the half-light, Therese was certain that she was smiling, just a little.

He's OK I suppose; in a 'knitting pattern' sort of way'.

'Oh Joey! That's an awful thing to . . .'

The front door bell burst through their conversation, and Therese pushed past. Jo could hear them talking in the corridor; her sister's familiar tones, and then the deeper, richer American accented voice replying. She fought back the sudden feeling of excitement that came over her when she heard his voice. He was everything she hated in a man – so sure of himself, sure that every woman who looked at him would be swooning; falling over themselves to be with him. Then the next night it would be someone else, and that name would be just another in the little green book; hidden away, waiting for his call.

But not her. She had worked long hard hours to reach the position she now held with the legal team at the UN. She had colleagues who had achieved what she had, only to throw it away by meeting some guy, marrying them, and then having their kids. Tess could have her Goldilocks and she was welcome to him, but she, Josefina McCaffery, was a one-woman band, especially where the likes of men like Napoleon Solo were concerned. He could take his little green book and shove it up his proverbial arse. Besides, Napoleon and Josefina? You must be joking.

'Good evening, Miss McCaffery, working hard as ever?. He had somehow managed to enter the room before she had realised he was there, and his presence caught her off her guard. She blushed slightly, furious with herself, and turned slightly away from him so that he wouldn't notice.

Oh, hello. Can I make something very clear?'

'You usually do' he replied, a faint smile playing on his lips.

'I have a very good idea of what you lot in UNCLE get up to. If you want to risk your lives in that way, that's your lookout, but I don't want Tessy's life being put at risk, right?'

'Naturally' he replied, looking at her as she paced in front of him. He seemed so damn calm; it just made her more wound up just to look at him standing there, so smug she could smack him one.

You see, I have no idea what this friend of yours is like, but he better be pretty near perfect to justify this little rescue trip.'

Solo smiled at her. She was absolutely riveting, like no girl he had dated before. She seemed to stand outside the ranks of those in his book, and strangely, he couldn't imagine adding her to them, as if that would make her the same as the others. But she was not going to be easy, he could see that.

'Let me assure you, Miss McCaffery . . .'

'Oh for goodness sake, call me Jo. If your friend returns, then no doubt you'll be coming round too on a regular basis.'

'Jo then. Let me assure you, that Illya would not want your sister to risk her life for him in any way, and that I will do everything in my power to protect her from any danger we might encounter. And yes, I'd say, and please don't repeat this to him, he is, well, yes, quite special'.

'Well, thanks, I'm glad to hear that. Well, I hope everything goes well, and that you come back safe too'.

She couldn't believe she had just said that. What was she thinking of? Now he would be mentally 'pencilling her in', she was sure. She felt herself blushing. Again.

'Sure' he said. 'That would be nice, Jo'.

'_Oh shit '_ she thought.

xxxxxxxxxx

They began their journey as the sun dropped in the sky over New York, a flaming red ball spreading rosy light over the cityscape, reflected in a thousand glass windows below. Solo had explained the outline of the plan to Therese, but he could see that she was too exhausted with anxiety and fear of what might have happened to Illya, to be receptive to any details beyond the very basic. He felt a kind of sadness for her as she lay quietly next to him; he imagined that her experience at the mine must have been truly traumatic. To fall in love with someone and then lose them was bad enough; to meet them again in unexpected circumstances, and to have them walk away from you without a trace of recognition, was ghastly.

He thought back to his meeting with Waverly. Obviously, Waverly was much more involved than Napoleon had initially realised. He seemed to have been aware of the involvement of certain people all along – Kateryna's appearance in Cambridge; Therese's visit to the coalmine; all were somehow part of a plan, the pieces of which Napoleon could not put together to finally understand the puzzle. And now, the old man was so anxious about Illya, when initially he had feigned a total lack of interest in the agent's wellbeing. He couldn't help but think that there would be more surprises along the way before the whole picture became clear.

As he lay back to rest, he glanced at his companion, and a picture of her older sister floated into his mind. _'I hope everything goes well, and that you come back safe too'. _Was that a sign that some sort of breakthrough had been achieved? He didn't like to read too much into it. She would be very much a three steps forward, two steps back kind of girl, he feared. Still, he thought she might be worth it. He decided that if they all came back in one piece, then he was going to try a bit harder; make her see that he was a bit more than an American Lothario with a little green book. He drifted off to sleep, thinking of her, seeing the flashing purple eyes in his mind.

They emerged from passport control at Tegel to the usual reception by the '_dynamic duo'_ as Illya occasionally called them. This time, however, there was an element of seriousness to the situation that had not existed before, and Napoleon could see it portrayed on the faces of the female agents. That did not stop Sabi from pouring forth the 'Sabi effect' upon Therese, squeezing her between herself and Kat, and walking off towards the car talking non-stop, leaving Napoleon struggling behind with the cases.

The agents wanted to know 'everything darling' about Thérèse; how old she was, where she lived, _'You live on top of each other, and yet you haven't got together yet? Gott in himmel!'; _what she did, and how she and Illyusha _(ah, that is the diminutive – beautiful)_ had met. Although Napoleon was worried that their interrogation might exhaust Therese after their long flight, their enthusiastic affection for the girl, combined with her thirst for knowledge of her beloved, combined to brighten her; it was hard to be miserable with those two around.

It was strange returning to the same apartment that only a few months ago, Illya had inhabited. Napoleon almost expected to see him come out of the bedroom wearing that absurd sweater, his hair over his eyes, as usual. Except that now he knew there wasn't any hair over his eyes; he was far from this place, far underground probably, and totally unaware of his friends here, and what was worse, of who he truly was.

Napoleon walked to the table and got out the papers connected with the affair. Sabi opened the brown envelope lying in the case and drew out a photograph. It was the one taken of Illya alone, the bland wall of the hut forming the background; the familiar features accentuated by the black and white print. Sabi said nothing, just gently stroked the face with the back of her fingers. She looked up at Napoleon, her face a mixture of emotions; eyes bright; lips pulled taut in anger and pity for him.

'Can you help him?' Thérèse had come up behind them, as they stared at the photograph.

'Oh darling, of course we can help him. Napoleon has a good plan, and with your help, we will rescue him, I know. Besides, Katya has very good contacts in her country; in fact, we may need to rescue more than one member of the Kuryakin family before we return'.

Therese looked up, startled. Napoleon's face was a picture.

'Would you mind explaining that last comment, Sabina?' he asked. 'As far as I know, this hasn't been mentioned on any plan I've seen recently'.

'Perhaps I can explain. Shall we all sit down, I've got coffee'.

Kateryna had come into the room from the kitchen with a tray of cups and saucers steaming with the aroma of freshly made coffee. When they were all seated, she began to speak.

'As you know, it's not easy to do anything in the Soviet Union; I have to use any contacts I can. We have a chance of getting into the country with the help of Therese and her photographic work, but the problem will come when we try to get out again, hopefully with an extra member of the team. I'm sorry Therese, but we must also prepare for the fact that Illya may not recognise any of us, and may be unwilling to come'.

'Then we'll have to force him!' shouted Sabi, looking from Kat to Napoleon and back again. Napoleon smiled, sadly,

'We are talking about Illya Kuryakin here. Anyone fancy forcing him to do something against his will?' Therese interrupted them.

'But he's not Illya. He's Valentin. He doesn't behave like Illya, believe me, I've met him' she whispered. 'I'm not worried about that. We have to get there soon, because I think that doctor, or whatever he is, means to kill him – in the very near future.' The strained look had returned to her face, but there was determination in it too. Napoleon realised she was prepared to go to any lengths to get Kuryakin back. '_Lucky man'_ he thought.

'Excuse me for being a dope here, but what about this other member of the Kuryakin family?' enquired Napoleon, 'I presume you mean his mother, unless he's got some other relatives hidden around the place somewhere'.

Kat twisted round in her chair to look at him.

'Yes, I'm sorry I didn't explain. You're right; it's his mother I'm talking about. As I said before, I have had to call on _any _contact I can in order to get us all out. If all goes well, we can leave Kiev by plane, but we have to get from Lesnaya to Kiev, and we may have to remain hidden at least for a short time before we can leave. I have a contact at the No4 Maternity Hospital in Kiev, where Therese has been given permission to photograph the staff and patients. . .'

'Maternity Hospital!' Napoleon replied, with a broad smile on his face, 'Is somebody not telling me something, girls?' Three pairs of eyes were turned on him in varying expressions of pity and disgust.

'If you have a better suggestion, please make it, otherwise remain quiet' Kat replied. 'As I was saying before I was interrupted, the hospital is very near the airport, and besides which . .' she glanced across at Thérèse before she murmured, 'we may need some medical help if things do not go entirely according to plan. My contact is going to speak to Dr Kuryakina, to find out if she will help us. We have decided not to tell her who the possible extra person will be. However, if she does help us, we may need to offer her the opportunity to leave the country. As you can imagine, helping us will not endear her to the Ukrainian authorities'.

'Well, let's hope we can effect a touching mother and son reunion then, with no medical intervention necessary' Napoleon replied. 'Besides, I thought she was a paediatrician, not an Emergency Room doctor'.

'As I said before' Kat said impatiently, 'if you have a better suggestion, please feel free to share it with us, Napoleon.'

Thérèse lifted her legs up on the sofa, and put her arms round them. She looked at the limits of her energy.

'I would very much like to meet his mother, if it were possible. And I can't think that she wouldn't want to see her son again after so long, or to help him, when she knows who it is she is helping. Do you think she will want to come to the United States with us?' she said.

'Darling, when she meets you, and when she sees what a lovely couple you are going to make, she will not be able to stay, I am sure' added Sabi. 'Besides, she will be able to give you lots of good advice'.

Napoleon looked puzzled. 'What sort of advice?' he asked.

'Oh Napolina, you are so silly!' she replied. 'Baby advice of course!'

Therese blushed deeply, as the other girls gathered round her, kissing and hugging her. Napoleon marvelled at how girls could do that. He could imagine the guys' version of that particular conversation.

As if this had finally exhausted her, Thérèse's eyes began to droop. Sabi motioned to Kat, and they half carried her into the bedroom. Between them, they managed to undress her and put her in the soft bed. They looked at each other, standing either side of her. Therese lay under the featherbed, her hair splayed out across the bed behind her. Sabi knelt down and stroked her hair, arranging it on the pillow.

'We must bring him back to her, darling, we can't fail. He needs her. You know, before he was taken, he talked to me about her in the most beautiful way. I had never heard him talk like that about anyone before. She will give him what we have, and he has not'

'And what is that, Sabi?'

'A wholeness, a completeness I suppose; _ja_, a feeling of wholeness'.

xxxxxxxxx

There had been little problem at the airport in Kiev, thanks to the bona fide arrangements that had been made for Thérèse's photographic assignment. The other three had been given passports and papers identifying Napoleon Solo and Sabina Klose as working for National Geographic Magazine, and Kateryna Tereschenko as their Ukrainian interpreter. Luckily, the appointment at the hospital was not until the next afternoon, so they were taken to their hotel by their 'State representative', and arrangements made to collect them at the right time next day.

As soon as the officious-looking man in the raincoat had been ushered out of the room, the agents began to prepare themselves. Therese had gone into the bedroom of the room she was sharing with Sabi and Kat; she could see them all gathered round one of the suitcases in the other bedroom. She shuddered slightly when she saw the three agents putting on their holsters and checking the guns; it forced her mind back to the assignment she had undertaken in South-East Asia.

She couldn't call herself a war photographer in any way, but she had had the opportunity to go, and she had taken it. She usually remembered things in terms of visual images, but Vietnam came back to her in a series of sounds; the constant whirring of giant helicopter gunships flying overhead; the constant screaming of people suffering on the ground. She wondered just how long that nightmare was going to last. She wondered if she should take a weapon with her this time. Therese hated unnecessary violence, but had learnt how to use a knife when she was in Laos. She felt in her shoulder bag, and drew out the knife from the side pocket. It shone dully in the darkness of the room; hard and cold, nestling in its soft scabbard; waiting to be brought out.

Now the others were returning, no doubt bristling with all sorts of hidden weapons and clever gadgets, she thought. She prayed that none of these would be necessary, that they could just find him and restore him to her. Suddenly, Kat's communicator began to issue a loud bleep. She turned, speaking into it with a low-pitched voice, the language unknown to Therese. She turned back, her face ashen.

'We must go immediately. That was my contact at the coalmine. There has been an accident'.

Thérèse felt a sensation as if her guts had risen up inside her, and were trying to force themselves out of her mouth. She breathed out deeply. Sabi was speaking in urgent tones to Kat in German. Now Napoleon joined in, speaking in quick sharp sentences. They had seemed to forget that Thérèse spoke good German, and she interrupted them, to let them know.

'I do apologise Thérèse, we didn't mean to exclude you. We just needed to decide what to do' explained Sabi. Kat continued,

'It appears that there has been a serious accident at the Lesnaya mine. There are fatalities, of course, and several severe injuries. Apparently, there was a large explosion, followed by another cave-in, but one of the miners managed to make a way through for some of the others to escape. Unfortunately he was injured himself'.

'_I can guess who that was'_, thought Napoleon, looking for an opportunity to discuss this with the two agents without Therese being there. But Kat was continuing, 'they have started to bring them up now, so we need to go as soon as we can. My contact in Kiev has arranged a car, which I think is the safest and quickest way to get there. We can talk on the way. Sabi has made a note of the hotel exits, so we all need to leave by a different place within the next fifteen minutes.' She looked at her watch. 'If we meet, say, in twenty minutes time at the corner of the road at the back of the hotel, the car will be waiting for us there'.

Therese grabbed her shoulder bag, and transferred a small camera and one roll of film from the metal suitcase, leaving the rest in the wardrobe. Sabi told her that Kat's contact would bring the suitcases to the hospital tonight; they had decided to leave a message at the hotel tomorrow morning, saying that they had already left for the hospital. The authorities wouldn't like it, but they had to try to keep to their itinerary so as not to draw too much attention to themselves.

Sabi produced a small hand-drawn plan of the hotel which they pored over for a few minutes. They decided who should go where, then Sabi folded the map and grabbed her bag, putting her arm through Thérèse.

'We'll go together, and the other two can take a different route OK?' she whispered, smiling at Thérèse encouragingly. Off they went, arm in arm. Napoleon wondered what they were talking about. Or who. He could guess. Sabi had probably planned the wedding, the reception and where they would go to on honeymoon by now, let alone 'the babies'. He was impressed by her ability to take people's minds off really difficult situations. _'Let's hope he's in a fit state to make it to the altar' _he thought.

Twenty minutes later, they were all safely ensconced in the car, another East German model, but this time a Wartburg; just as noisy and slow as the Trabant, but bigger, which was as well, considering what they were about to attempt. Kat and Napoleon sat in the front seat, Kat driving. She had explained that the coalmining area was about 100 Km south of Kiev, so she hoped that they could be there by early evening. Sabi leaned forward to hear what they were saying, but Therese lay back in the seat, looking out at the countryside flashing by as the car gathered speed going out of the city.

The usual urban sprawl, somewhat grey and colourless and indicative of soviet planning, was gradually giving way to a gentler, greener landscape. Thérèse reflected that this was the place that Illya had grown up in, although, judging by the post-war buildings of the outer suburbs, it must have been heavily damaged during the war. Nevertheless, she felt an affinity for the place, as if by being here, she was slowly building up links between them, holding them together in spite of everything that had conspired to pull them apart. She decided to pray – what else could she do? The others had their plans, which she was sure were well thought out, and she was certain they would not fail to find him if they could. She was here to provide a way in, but beyond that, she felt powerless. She just had to go along and do what she was asked to do. No, she could pray, and this was a form of power she believed in.

She closed her eyes and summoned up the prayers that she knew so well, to steady her mind. After a while, some words of a psalm she had heard at Mass recently drifted into her thoughts.

_I was thrust, thrust down and falling_

_But the Lord was my helper._

_The Lord is my strength and my song;_

_He was my saviour._

She tried to picture the place. The darkness and heat of it; so far down. She had been in caves before; she remembered going to Mammoth caves when she was working in Kentucky. But that was alright, the caves were huge and lofty, the water dripping softly from the rock to create immense and wondrous formations. She knew that they were there as visitors; just to marvel, and then to leave – another enjoyable visit to a natural phenomenon. This was different. This, she was sure, was, as they called it in Lancashire, '_the pit'_. A place where men sweated and strained their lives away until they died, coughing their lungs up in a hospital ward, or, worse still, brought up injured, limbs broken or severed, or worse still . . She forced these feelings down, away, and tried to return to the psalm. The words strengthened her; she tried to reach out to him in her prayer. _Please, Lord, enfold him in your arms and support him. Be with him and never leave him alone._

She felt a hand softly squeeze her arm. She opened her eyes. The landscape had changed, dramatically. The soft greenness of the countryside had been overlaid strangely with gigantic, conical hills of a dark grey, sooty colour. It gave the place the look of outer space. In the distance, she could see the towers housing the winding gear for the shafts. Thérèse had grown up with the sight of similar structures, but nothing like the scale of this place. For mile upon mile the coalfield stretched; a series of connected hells.

They arrived at the gate of the mine to a scene of chaos. There seemed to be hundreds of people milling around the yard where Thérèse had last seen Illya walking away towards the pithead baths. In the distance, she could see a large group of people gathered round what looked like a notice, or series of notices on the wall of the medical centre; fear clutched at her as she imagined what that notice could be, and she looked wildly at Sabi. The German agent leaned forward and pointed it out to the others.

The mayhem came to their aid, in that no-one seemed to notice them or challenge their reason for being there. When they had parked, Napoleon turned to the women.

'I presume that that' he said pointing at the list, 'is the list of dead and injured, judging by the crowd standing around it. I think we should check the list, then, if Sabi and Kat go to the morgue, Thérèse and I will go to the medical facility. If, as I am hoping, Illya has managed to stay alive somehow, then we will need to move him as soon as possible. I'll be in touch directly when we find him'.

As they turned away, Napoleon grabbed Kat's arm.

'I'm taking Thérèse in case there is something unpleasant to face at the morgue; you get my drift' he murmured, _sotto voce_.

'Naturally' she whispered. 'I will be discreet if we find him . .. well, I will be, but don't expect Sabi to be calm, will you?

xxxxxxxxxxx

'

The morgue was at the back of the medical centre, and Kat and Sabi were able to find it easily, as there was a constant stream of stricken-looking women coming in and out of the door. They had been shocked by the name on the list, until they had overheard two men talking at the back of the crowd.

'Rostov is on the wrong list' Kat had heard him say, 'Unless he died after we brought him up, but I'm sure Viktor said that he was still alive, despite the bang on that wooden head of his'. The other, a giant of a man, had laughed grimly.

'It was that bloody fool Gregor. He said he was going to borrow Rostov's papers'.

Kat spoke quietly to them, the men pointing towards the medical centre, then shaking her hand warmly. When they had walked away, she whispered to Sabi

'If they are right, then we should find Gregor in there with Valentin's papers on him. Sabi looked at her.

'But we don't know what Gregor looks like. How will we know, and Kattya, what if it is not Gregor, what if . .' and she looked away. Kat could see her breathing hard, her hand gripping her bag so tightly, Kat could see the whiteness of her knuckles.

'Be strong, Sabi. He is not here. This is a place of the dead'.

They stepped inside. They were immediately conscious of a low moaning sound which permeated the whole room. One or two people stood near each shrouded figure, with medical attendants nearby. The act of identification was accompanied by the sounds of hearts breaking, heads of the bereaved bowed; women huddled together in mutual support.

Sabi and Kat walked towards a man with a clipboard who was directing people towards their dead relatives. He pointed to a trolley at the end of the last row. The women had seen death many times, had killed on many occasions. But this house of the dead was something different. Had this been one accident in many, or was the hand of Gerhard Fetting involved? Kat was sure she knew the answer.

They arrived at the body. They were not alone. Standing next to it was a woman; she was about the same height as Therese, but there the resemblance ended. She was dumpy, with a broad, bland face, her hair hidden by the scarf tied tightly round her head. She stood motionless before the body, obviously terrified to make the identification. As they approached, she looked up, surprise, even a little annoyance registering on her face. She spoke first. Her voice was low and harsh.

'Comrades, are you relatives of Valentin Illich? He said that he had no relatives. Because if you are, I would prefer that you make the identification'.

'Excuse me, comrade', said Kat, 'but what relationship do you have with Comrade Rostov?'

'We are to be married' she said simply. The women looked at each other, Sabi's eyes shooting to the top of her head. '_Gott in Himmel!' _ she whispered to Kat, 'How has he got trapped by this frump?'

'I am Valentin Illich's sister' Sabi said suddenly. 'I will look for you'. Kat looked at her in surprise, but she stepped forward and pulled back the sheet. The Ukrainian woman, Elena by name, screamed, and clutched at her mouth with the end of her scarf. Sabi and Kat looked at each other, trying not to look relieved. The man lying in front of them bore the marks of someone who had suffered the effects of blast at close quarters. His right arm seemed to have been blown right off, and there were extensive burns to the rest of his body. But despite the disfigurement, there was one identifying feature which told them everything. This man had black hair.

'It is Gregor! sobbed Elena. But where is Valentin?'. Before they could stop her, she had rushed up the aisle towards the door. Kat immediately opened her communicator to speak to Napoleon.

'Yes, Kat. Good news?'

'Yes, but there is trouble heading your way. Have you found him yet?'

'No, we're in the medical centre, but it's chaos here. Thérèse is asking about, so hopefully we should find him soon. What's the trouble?'

'It's not 'what', rather 'who'. It appears that our friend and comrade has got himself a fiancée in his other life too'. Napoleon gulped, keeping the slight figure of Therese in his sight. How was he going to explain this one? He hoped Illya had a good story when he woke up. Kat continued,

'Apparently, they are going to marry soon. You won't miss her when she turns up. I have to say that she is not one of the more attractive of my countrywomen'.

'Right. Thanks for the warning. I'll be in touch when we find him, and I'll try and prevent World War Three starting here. Solo out'.

He turned to see Thérèse signalling him from the end of the corridor. She looked somehow excited and fearful at the same time. He wondered whether he should tell her that there was someone else heading their way with designs on her man. He decided to duck that one unless he was forced to. He ran down the corridor towards her.

'I spoke to one of the medical orderlies. I told him that I was a relative from Kiev'. She seemed pleased with herself, her eyes sparkling. Her hand was on the handle of the door. He put his hand over hers.

'Do you want me to go in first' he said, 'If you're worried'.

'I'm not worried. You wait here' she said firmly. 'Just give me two minutes'.

She left him on the corridor and walked in the room. He could see from the door that there was someone lying there, but his head was covered in a large bandage which made identification impossible from this distance. He saw her walk over, then lean towards the man. All of a sudden she had laid her head gently down on the bed, her arms curled round the bandaged head. He opened his communicator.

'Kat? Found him' he whispered, smiling.

CHAPTER 12

May

He had been dozing, somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness. His last memory had been of pushing through the wall of rocks, feeling them moving under him; then of falling into darkness. As he regained consciousness, his mind was a miasma of confused images; a man, an American talking to him, joking; and the same man but in another place; a place with grey corridors and sliding doors. Then the girl with the camera - at the mine, then at the house again, writing, writing on his hand?. He could hear her voice; over the top of that, the voice of Elena; hard, shrill over the softer tones.

They had brought him into the medical centre, and coarse hands had washed down his body in a perfunctory manner, while others attended to his head and arm. He had been awake enough to remember the x-rays, the pain of being moved around as the films were taken, and later shoved under the trolley he was lying on. Then, the rough shaving of the side of his head, and suturing of the wound. Still all this had helped his mind to clear. Gradually the confusion of images and sounds and experiences crystallised. Places, people, events began to slot themselves into place. Illya. That was who he was. Compared to this, the physical injuries seemed trifling. He felt as if he had died and come to life again.

Once Illya had recovered his thoughts, he realised that he could remember Valentin clearly too. From the first excruciating moments of the treatment meted out to him by Fetting, to the last moments in the mine, he remembered everything - including Elena. He groaned at the thought of her. It was a strange experience, as if he was watching himself behaving in ways he could hardly believe. She was so dominant, he so submissive, accepting. Still, perhaps she would not find him.

He touched his head carefully, and glanced down at his body. His arm had been roughly cast, but at least it was relatively pain free. His head was another matter. He managed to retrieve the films from under the mattress and studied the one of his skull, with difficulty. He had seen a film like this before. It was only a matter of time before the swelling from the concussion and the depressed fracture would render him unconscious. He needed surgery. He had to make contact with Napoleon or with Waverly before unconsciousness took hold. He must tell them what he knew. But how?

He lay back on the trolley, listening to the chaos unfolding in the corridor. Nobody was bothering to even look at him, never mind carry out neurological observations. His eyes began to flutter as he fought to keep awake. As he drifted away, he was aware of someone in the room, leaning over him. His eyes were closed, but he was conscious of a sweet perfume he had smelt before. Then he felt the soft brush of lips on his cheek; on his lips. Thérèse.

'Illya, oh, Illyusha'. He felt hot tears on his cheek, and turned his face towards her, opening his eyes. His mouth felt hot and dry; choked. Her beautiful eyes were looking into his; so near, he felt as if the whole world was blotted out by them. He licked his cracked lips.

'Does this count as our first date?' he whispered. Her eyes crinkled slightly, then she began to smile.

'You really know how to give a girl a good time' she whispered in his ear, nibbling it gently below where the grubby bandage swathed his head like a cocoon.

A polite cough broke the spell. Illya grimaced slightly.

'This is a little east of where you said you were going to rescue me from, Napoleon' he said, his lips showing the faintest of smiles.

'Well, if you would go off pursuing alternative career options, what do you expect' he replied. Thérèse sat up, looking from one of them to the other.

'Is this how you two normally behave in these situations?' she asked in amazement; 'he's lying here half-dead; we're stuck behind the Iron Curtain with only a beat-up car to make our get-away in, and all you two can do, is to make asinine jokes? And don't look at me like that, Illya Kuryakin, as if butter wouldn't melt in your mouth!'

There was a moment's silence before Illya whispered,

'Does this count as our first row?'

She came up very close to him, and taking the edge of his ear, bit him very gently on the part protruding from the bandage.

'Ouch!, You are not to further injure a half-dead man, especially one who is considering marrying you, young lady' he said beseechingly, fixing her with his gaze, his eyes saying something different to his mouth. She leaned over and whispered,

'I have lots of other more subtle ways of torturing you, when we get home'.

His eyes closed momentarily.

'That's what I was relying on' he murmured.

'I'm sorry to break up the party' Napoleon intervened, 'but I think we need to start thinking about making a discreet exit, especially, er . . in the light of a certain person who might be coming along very soon to ask after your health, comrade'. Illya stared at him, a look of confusion on his face suddenly turning to consternation, as he saw Napoleon's expression and heavy glance towards Therese. He started to push himself up from the bed, attempting to swing his legs over the side of the trolley to sit upright. Napoleon and Thérèse caught him before he fell, easing him gently towards the ground.

Thérèse saw the x-ray films poking out from the mattress, and stuffed them into her shoulder bag while hanging on to Illya, whose pallor was worsening as he tried to steady himself. He seemed to be having problems walking.

'Napoleon' he said hoarsely, his eyes seeming to lose focus, 'I am having difficulty getting my brain to tell my legs what to do.'

'OK, don't worry, we'll support you; Sabi and Kat will be along shortly. Then we'll get you to a hospital and get that head sorted out'.

'Napoleon', the Russian agent replied, his voice starting to fade slightly, 'I must tell you something before I . .'

'Just concentrate on moving, Illya, it can wait' Napoleon urged, glancing at Therese, who was looking increasingly perturbed at the state of the man between them, now dragging his legs badly as he attempted to leave the side room. He stopped.

'No. It cannot wait. You must contact Waverly'. His breath was coming in short bursts, his eyes all over the place. He leaned towards Solo, his bandaged head almost hanging on his shoulder, close to his ear.

'There are two cuckoos in the nest. One is the sleeper. The other is the control. I don't know who they are. Tell Waverly . . .'

He was almost at the point of unconsciousness, fighting to stay awake long enough to deliver his message. Napoleon, sensing this, held him tighter.

'The sleeper, is it Miller? Or is he the control? Illya! Wake up!'

'No . . . not Miller, not either. But the sleeper is one of us, Napoleon. They are in Section Two'. Napoleon looked closely at his friend. He knew there was no point in questioning him, even if he had been in a fit state. He had to trust him in this. He did trust him, implicitly.

As they got to the door, they could hear loud footsteps coming down the corridor. Napoleon looked up to see a dumpy woman advancing upon them, at some speed. By some miracle, there was a wheelchair lying idle outside the room, which they managed to slide Illya into, his head lolling from side to side as he slipped into a semi-conscious state.

'Valentin?' she squealed, as she came nearer, 'Valentin Illich! You are alive!'. At the sight of him, she looked accusingly at the two standing either side of him.

'What are you doing with my Valentin' she asked, fixing Napoleon, and then Thérèse, with a look that could curdle milk. 'Where are you taking him?'. Thérèse looked straight at her.

'He is not _your _Valentin. He is nobody's property. But . . .' she pulled herself up to her full, diminutive, height, 'he is my lover, '_Please God forgive me for this lie; I pray that he will be soon; Oh, God forgive me for this also!'_ and I am taking him home, so . .'

Before she could finish, the Ukrainian woman had launched herself straight at Therese, bringing her considerable bulk to bear. But the slighter girl was far too quick for her, and before Napoleon could intervene, he saw the flash of something metal appear out of Thérèse's jacket. She was behind Elena now, with her arm round her neck, a long, thin knife at her throat.

'If you ever come near him again' Thérèse whispered fiercely, 'then this will be doing more than stroking your neck – understand?'

The Ukrainian woman leapt away, backing up the corridor, shouting abuse at them, which Napoleon was glad they didn't understand. As she retreated, she collided with the two female UNCLE agents. She stared at Sabi, screeching,

Your brother is welcome to that skinny little whore! I hope she gets a bit more of him than I did!' and with that, she stormed off down the corridor. Sabi and Kat ran to the wheelchair in time to prevent Illya from toppling onto the ground, as Thérèse replaced the knife in her trouser pocket.

'I learnt it in Laos' she said, 'It's proved a useful way of keeping men with ideas at bay'.

_'I hope she hasn't taught that particular skill to her sister' _Napoleon thought, as they started to move off down the corridor. As they reached the large double doors at the far end, they heard an alarm begin to ring.

' Don't worry' shouted Kat above the racket of the alarm, 'I've laid on a little exit strategy, courtesy of some good friends of Valentin Illich here'. They wheeled the chair as quickly as they could out of the centre, past the doors leading to the morgue.

Illya signalled to them to stop, and immediately was violently sick. Thérèse ran into the nearby toilets and emerged with a small, wet towel, which she proceeded to try to clean his face. He momentarily opened his eyes fully, trying to focus on her face, as she held his up towards her.

'Hold on, she urged him in a low voice, 'don't leave me now, please hold on, _mi corazon'_ . The agents looked at each other, and then at her. Napoleon drew his weapon, and screwed on a silencer. He was determined not to let Illya die here. He had his orders, to bring him back alive, but now it seemed much more than just that.

Kat directed them across the yard to an area where a number of vans and lorries were parked. A massive man emerged from the cab of a large vehicle that looked as if it had seen service in the last war. Without speaking, he lifted Illya from the wheelchair like a broken doll, as the doors at the rear of the van came open. Other miners were waiting inside. Soft straw was covered in blankets, and straps had been fixed to the sides to hold him in place. When everyone was settled, the doors were shut firmly and the vehicle, with a low roar, heaved into life and began to back into the yard.

Kat sat in the cab with Oleg, the driver. As they advanced towards the gates, she drew her weapon.

'No' he said in a deep, rough voice, 'let me talk, not your gun'. The yard had returned to a more normal state than the chaotic scene they had encountered on the way in. There were now guards at the gates, directing people towards the morgue, and viewing with suspicion those who were leaving. They flagged the van down, one indicating that he wanted to speak to Oleg, the other wandering to the back of the vehicle. It was nearly dark by this time, the guard shining his torch into the cab, illuminating the two occupants.

Good evening Comrades. Where are you going with this van at this hour? Oleg looked unfazed by the comment, and Kat snuggled closer to him, gazing at him with adoring eyes.

'Do you not recognise my husband? He is one of the heroes of the accident this morning! Are we not allowed to go home and celebrate his good fortune with his comrades?' she bellowed at the guard. Oleg opened the cab door and got out. He towered over the other man, glaring at him. The guard decided that it wasn't worth the argument, shouting to his colleague, just as he was opening the van doors at the back. The sight of several miners lying drunk with a couple of women caused him to quietly close the doors again. They signalled to Oleg to drive on, saluting him with waves and broad grins on their faces.

Inside the van, the others sat up, clearing the blankets off Illya and checking he was still breathing. Sabi handed a small torch to Thérèse.

'Take this' she whispered; 'take his pulse every fifteen minutes, and check his eyes. Tell me if you see any change in his pupils. I am hoping they can treat him in Kiev, because I don't think he'll make it much further – I'm sorry darling, there's no point me lying to you, is there?' She looked sadly at Thérèse, who was stroking the side of Illya's head, the face in shadow, only the dirty white of the bandages glowing in the darkness of the van.

'I'm not losing him, Sabi' she replied fiercely, 'he's been through too much to die now'. She looked away, furiously wiping the tears away from her face with the back of her hand. 'I just _can't _lose him now' she murmured.

The miners had agreed to take them to Kiev after Kat had explained the circumstances. They all had seen 'the doctor and his assistant', and all agreed that they were 'enemies of the state' and deserved 'a slow and painful death, similar to the one Ivan the Terrible gave to the Boyars'. After Napoleon looked completely blank at this important piece of Russian history, Kat explained that the great Tsar had boiled these noblemen in oil.

'Excellent solution' he murmured. During the journey, they recounted the story of the rescue, speaking in Russian for the benefit of their fellow travellers. Thérèse kept up her nursing regime, faithfully keeping up her observations, trying to keep Illya from sinking further into unconsciousness. From time to time, he had moments of lucidity, but his speech was beginning to slur, and his eyes seemed wandering and blurred.

During a lull in the conversation, Napoleon turned away and opened his communicator. Using the channel Waverly had indicated, he at last heard the familiar tones of the old man.

'Mr Solo, I trust you have good news?' Waverly said.

'Yes sir, we have retrieved Mr Kuryakin, but I am afraid that he will require medical intervention, sooner rather than later'.

'Well, I'm sure that Miss Tereschenko can arrange something suitable to ensure Mr Kuryakin's recovery is taken care of. We will arrange pick up for you at Kiev. Have you been able to speak to Mr Kuryakin?'

'Yes sir'. Napoleon began to tell his superior what Illya had said. There was a silence for a few moments. Then Waverly spoke.

'Listen carefully, Mr Solo. It is vital that nobody here is aware of what you have told me. We have to flush out both the sleeper and the control, and in order to do that, THRUSH has to believe that Mr Kuryakin knows who these persons are.' Napoleon sighed. He knew what was coming next.

'So that means, Sir, that Mr Kuryakin needs to stay alive long enough, to become a target for our little feathered friends?'.

'I wouldn't have put it quite like that, Mr Solo, but I am sure Mr Kuryakin will understand the importance of finding these people. Goodness knows how much they have infiltrated our organisation already. However, Mr Kuryakin is going to need your help, Mr Solo, to bring this mission to a satisfactory conclusion'.

Well that was going to be simple then. All they had to do, was to arrange brain surgery for Illya, followed by what might turn out to be a tricky escape out of a Soviet bloc country, probably with a Soviet citizen, along with her son who would be straight out of theatre after surgery. At the same time, they were to actively encourage THRUSH to find out that Illya wasn't dead after all, and actually knew something he didn't, so that he could be a target. He didn't even bother to think whether Illya would go along with it or not; he just wondered how he was going to explain it to Therese. As if he knew what Napoleon had been thinking, Waverly continued,

'You do not need to concern yourself with 'leaking' the story, Mr Solo; we have the means to do that from this end. I think it would be wise if Mr Kuryakin arrived in New York in a state of, well, shall we say, 'unconsciousness'. That way, THRUSH will be encouraged to attempt an attack upon him and may be deluded enough to think that they can succeed'.

'Yes sir, when he comes round from the operation, I'll let him know.'

'I hope you will, Mr Solo. I hope you will. I know that Mr Kuryakin will play his part to ensure that this despicable plot is smashed before any more lives are put in danger'. Waverly paused. 'And, Mr Solo, I think it would be best if Miss McCaffery, bearing in mind what my wife has told me about her feelings for Mr Kuryakin, were not told of this. We cannot know yet how THRUSH will react when they know he is alive; I think it might be better if her reaction to Mr Kuryakin's unconscious state was genuine rather than contrived, don't you?

Napoleon sighed. During their years working together, Illya and he had both been asked to make considerable sacrifices without demur, for the sake of the Command. It was not just a case of risking their lives; in a sense, the physical risks were easy. They had both relished some of the dangerous situations they had faced, and survived. But now, he could feel that they had both reached a stage in their lives when something was missing; they both needed to make a commitment elsewhere, in order to make sense of what they did for UNCLE. But in doing this, were they not drawing in, risking the lives of other, more innocent ones, making them and themselves, more vulnerable to the evil they fought?

It was now obvious that Illya meant to make a commitment to Thérese; something that he would have laughed out loud at, if someone had suggested it to him six months ago. And now, Waverly was asking Napoleon and Illya to deceive her, to allow her to believe that the man she had suffered so much for already, was in a coma, and could possibly not wake up again? His eyes closed momentarily.

'Yes sir' he said.

It was quite late in the evening when they finally reached the outskirts of Kiev, Oleg gently coaxing the van through the traffic until they reached the hospital. As they rolled up to the back entrance, which was, Kat grimly reflected, the mortuary entrance, her communicator began to bleep.

'Yes Napoleon'.

'Just a small enquiry. Didn't quite get the chance to ask you exactly what is going to happen now, bearing in mind we have one very sick individual in the back here'.

'This may be the end of the world to you, Napoleon' Kat replied, 'but there are some very fine doctors here, even though the equipment leaves a lot to be desired. Everything has been made ready; the only slight problem may be that Dr Kuryakin doesn't know yet who is the injured party'.

'Mm. . .' Napoleon replied. 'This could be interesting. Well I hope the mother and son reunion doesn't take too long because he's fading fast in here'.

The van slid to a halt with a grind of brakes. As they opened the back doors, they saw a trolley being pushed out of the doors by two men, who looked on in amazement as the limp figure was passed out of the van and carefully lifted onto the trolley by the miners. They had climbed out of the vehicle and now stood round him. One by one, they kissed his cheeks, murmuring good wishes and thanks. Therese found this simple expression of gratitude so moving that she ran forward and hugged each one of them, her slender frame in massive contrast to their heavily built bodies. They nodded to Napoleon and then, jumping back into the van, they swept off into the night, leaving the little group alone.

Just inside the doors, they could see the figure of a doctor, waiting. Kat pushed past quickly, and went up to her, shaking her hand, then speaking quietly to her. It was immediately apparent what she was saying from the woman's body language. She stiffened, her hands going to her face, then her head going up as she turned towards the trolley coming through the doors.

Napoleon stood staring, as she went towards the trolley. It was a very strange experience, as if he was staring at an older, female version of his partner; the same features, though more feminine, the same colour hair, longer of course, tied up in a sort of French pleat at the back of her head; but more astonishing, the same eyes and facial expression, the look of controlled emotions that he had seen so many times on Illya's face. She was unmistakeably his mother.

She lent over the trolley, gently pushing back the bandage that had fallen across one of his eyes. As she brought her stethoscope up to listen to his chest, Napoleon could see her hand slightly shaking. Therese then stepped forward with the films, and a little note of her observations. Dr Kuryakina looked up, taking the x-rays and the notes, and holding the films up quickly to the light, frowning at what she saw. She signalled to the two porters to take the trolley to theatre, but, as they came forward, she bent down and kissed his cheek, stroking the tufts of hair sticking out of the bandage. Then the trolley was pushed away, and they were left alone in the corridor.

Napoleon stepped forward.

'Good evening, Dr Kuryakina' he began, 'my name is Napoleon Solo; I am your son's partner, er .. colleague. We work together in New York'. He began to see how inadequate this sounded, as her face registered a mixture of confusion and bewilderment at the events of the last five minutes.

'Excuse me, Mr Solo, if I appear totally confused by what is going on here. Your colleague, Miss Tereschenko, asked me if I would help an American who had got into difficulties in this country, and because of my son, I agreed to do so. I now find that this person not only is seriously injured, but . .' she ran her hand across her head, astonishingly just like Illya did frequently, when talking to Napoleon, 'that he is in fact my Illya, who I thought was working at Columbia University, but, according to your colleague, works with you, Mr Solo, for some sort of world security organisation'. She stared at him, her blue eyes giving him the same 'treatment' he had received from her son on many occasions.

'Dr Kuryakina, I am sorry that you have been put in this situation; believe me, we wouldn't have involved you if it had not been absolutely necessary . .'

'So, my son is lying injured not far away from where I work, and you wouldn't have involved me? Was that his decision, or is he not allowed to have any contact with his only relative? If that is the case, Mr Solo, then I am not impressed by your organisation, and I am distressed that Illya has involved himself with it' she said icily, her lips a tight line. She leaned back against the wall, her face set into a mask of confusion and pain. There was an awkward silence for a few moments, then she seemed to recover herself.

'I'm sorry' she said quietly, 'I have to go to theatre now to assist Dr Malinkov. Please come'. They all walked swiftly down the corridor, following her. They passed through several sets of double doors which eventually opened into the foyer and pre-operative rooms. Thérèse could see that they were preparing Illya for surgery. As she looked anxiously over at the trolley, she saw his mother looking at her questioningly.

'Forgive me' she said more gently, 'I haven't introduced myself. My name is Marina Kuryakina. You don't work for them . .', she nodded towards Napoleon, Kateryna and Sabi, who were standing in a close group, talking in whispers together, 'do you? '

'No. Thérèse McCaffery. I'm a photographer. I'm supposed to be photographing people at this hospital for a study of your country that I'm making. But I'm also your son's neighbour and, and ….',

' and you care for him, am I right?' Thérèse stared at her for a moment, then smiled.

'How did you know?' she stammered, blushing despite herself. Marina Kuryakina smiled. 'I've been a widow for a long time' she sighed, 'but even I can see that he is more than just a colleague to you. Besides' she added, 'he is very lovable when you get to know him, is he not?'

A nurse came out of the small room and whispered to Marina.

'I have to go' she said to Thérèse. 'Tell your friends that we will be as quick as possible, but I won't risk his life – he's all I have. And, Miss McCaffery, don't worry, he will be fine, I promise you. Now, I suggest that you tell Mr Solo to take you back to the hotel to rest before tomorrow. There is nothing more you can do here; we will look after him, and you can return later with your state guide. That way, you will not draw even more unwanted attention upon what is going on here than you need to. Oh, and tell Miss Tereschenko that I will give her my decision tomorrow morning. She will know what I mean'. She smiled encouragingly, then turned and walked through the doors into the preparation room.

xxxxxxxxxx

In the end, they compromised. After Thérèse had refused to leave, Marina had found a little truckle bed which she had set up in her own tiny office, on condition that Therese promised she would stay there until fetched. The others agreed to return to the hotel and make their excuses to their minder the next morning.

Napoleon in one way was rather relieved at this arrangement, as it would give him the opportunity to discuss Waverly's instructions with Sabi and Kat. They walked out of the hospital to see the Lada sat there waiting for them, as if it had followed the van itself.

'Don't tell me, you have contacts . . .' said Napoleon, as Kat unlocked the car door.

On the way back to the hotel, Napoleon began to relay Waverly's message to the others. Sabi, who was sitting in the back, leaned forward, her blue eyes hardening as he spoke.

'Napoleon, this is going to be so hard for her' she said, 'why can't she know that he is really awake, it seems so cruel'. Yet again, Napoleon sighed.

'You think it's going to be hard watching her think he's unconscious' he said, 'I've got to break it to him that he has to act unconscious, and that includes the whole nine yards – oxygen canula, catheter, and the whole total patient care in the medical centre exclusive package'.

'He will cope, he is an arch dissembler' said Kat, 'but can I suggest that you do not try to fool his mother into thinking he is unconscious; she is far too smart to fall for it. Besides, I have the feeling that she knows him far better than any of us; even you, Napoleon'. Sabi leaned right forward, putting her hand on Napoleon's shoulder.

'Then that means that we are all conspiring against that poor girl' she whispered. Napoleon turned round to face her.

'It may well be that it will save her life, that's all' he replied.

They discussed the probable course of events for the next day. Kat had heard from the station in West Germany that an UNCLE jet would be landing at the airport at Kiev for immediate turnaround.

'We can fool the authorities into thinking this is a civil flight from Berlin for a very short time', said Kat, 'but we have to get out again as soon as possible, particularly if we have a Soviet citizen and a former Soviet citizen aboard'.

'And what about Blondie?' asked Sabi anxiously, 'it will only be hours after his operation – will he be OK?' Napoleon could see Kat smiling as she drove along.

'Sabi, darling, you are more like his mother than his mother', she laughed, 'don't worry; we'll have full medical facilities available. We just have to work out how we can get Thérèse out of the way so that he can have a relapse in the privacy of his own ambulance'.

xxxxxxxxxx

The knock at the door was loud, as if lots of energy had been expended in the action. She could see the shadow of a woman at the door through the frosted glass; a bulky shape, short, squat almost. The door opened, and she was not disappointed.

'Dr Engels' the woman said, almost as if she were giving her an order.

'_Ja'_, she said. 'I understand you have some important information for me?'

'Oh yes, Doctor, I think you will be very interested in what I have to say. I understand that the other doctor is no longer here? The one that treated Valentin Illich . . I mean, Comrade Rostov'. At the name, Winnifred Engels head came up from the papers she was looking through on her desk and her gaze was riveted on the Ukrainian woman. Almost automatically she felt the large lump on her twisted nose.

The woman sat down in front of her, thumping down heavily in the chair facing her desk.

'Before I tell you my information, Comrade doctor, I would like to ask something' she said.

'Continue'.

'I have asked around about you and the other doctor. You are both East Germans. I would like to know who you work for. The STASI? If so, I would like to offer myself to your organisation, in return for my information'.

Winnifred Engels stared. She wanted to laugh at this Ukrainian, sitting there. But on reflection, she might be just the person who could be of use to her.

Fetting had left the clinic as soon as he had checked the list after the accident. He was ecstatic to find Kuryakin's name amongst the dead, laughing out loud with that horrible, screaming voice he had, his face looking like stretched polythene. Unlike him, she did not find his death amusing. She opened the drawer of her desk, looking over the array of surgical instruments neatly stacked there. Blowing Kuryakin to bits seemed such a waste. Such a quick death, so lacking in the detail of suffering. What could she not have accomplished if she had been given the opportunity? She looked across at the woman.

'If you think we are STASI, you have been misinformed, _fraulein', _she said. 'However, our organisation does operate in a similar way, and there are opportunities _worldwide_. So, Miss. .'

'Fedorenko, Elena Fedorenko'

'Miss Federenko, what information do you have which you think would interest us?

CHAPTER 13

Early June

'Mama?' His eyes began to focus slowly, as what had just been a shape became a person; a person he knew well. She looked down at him, her head to one side.

'Yes, Illyusha. You have some explaining to do, no? And don't close your eyes, because I haven't fallen for that one since you were six'.

'Mm' he murmured, pursing his lips. He looked up at his mother, blue eyes meeting blue eyes.

'I am sorry, mama. I never intended to deceive you, or for you to find out about me in this way'.

'Yes, Illya, after not hearing from you for some time, I now find that you are not the University professor I have told all my friends about, but some sort of secret agent.' She gave a deep sigh and shook her head. 'Not only that, but that you have a young lady who must think a great deal of you, to follow you halfway around the world and put herself in considerable danger for your sake. I hope your intentions towards her are honourable?'

'Thérèse? You have met Thérèse?' His pale face seemed to become instantly suffused with more colour as she looked at him. 'Oh . . . yes; well, I, I mean we . .'

She stroked his face, smiling at his embarrassment in front of her. She supposed he was just as dedicated to his profession as he had been to his studies, but here, lying on the bed in the recovery room, his head covered in bandages, he looked fragile, and so young.

As the operation had progressed through the night, Marina, who was not a neurosurgeon, watched as her colleagues attempted to repair the damage to her child. It had given her the opportunity to reflect on the Ukrainian woman's offer of a new life in the West. She had never left her country, except to spend two years at the University in Leningrad when Illya was just a baby. After Nikolai's death, she had struggled to qualify and to support them both, but she had managed, and she had advanced in her field. But there were restrictions here; on her research certainly, but also on her life.

She had never told Illya, but she was sure he would have guessed how difficult her life had become since he had decided to stay in the West. She had had one opportunity to travel abroad, to the conference in Cambridge, but since then she had been considered 'untrustworthy', and promotions had been blocked, with no explanation given. Besides that, the Russians had all but destroyed her church, closing buildings and imprisoning priests. She had loved a Russian, bore a Russian name, gave birth to a Russian child. She would always have a connection to them, but lately she had felt oppressed, stifled by their occupation of her beloved country.

Now she had the opportunity to make a new start; she had academic research contacts in the United States. Yes, she could see that going to the United States could herald a new chapter in her career, but there was more than that. There was Illya.

He had been a reserved child from early on. She knew that having a Russian name was not easy growing up in the Ukraine, but there was little she could do to protect him. He would return from school with a set face, refusing to share what had happened, until when she really pressed, he would occasionally tell her. He had used his academic brilliance however, to transcend his difficulties with his peers, and it was to give him the opportunity to escape as well, but not before two years in the Russian Navy had been served. She well remembered his return home after that. He had left as a boy, and returned a hardened, tougher man.

And now, suddenly he was here, and not alone. She had lived alone herself for so long that she could hardly dare to criticise him for choosing the same; yet she had hoped that somehow he would find somebody. Now, it seemed, her prayers had been answered. The girl, she looked no more than that, obviously adored him, and the feeling was returned, from the look on his face when her name was mentioned. She kissed him, and walked quickly back to her office.

Thérèse was lying spread-eagled across the little bed, the long plait hanging over the side of the bed behind her. Marina knelt down and put her hand gently on her shoulder. The girl's eyes slowly opened and then widened with shock for a few brief seconds.

'You're so like him, I . .I couldn't think. . ' she said rather dreamily. Then she sat up suddenly, her face passing into a worried frown. 'Is he . . O.K? I can't believe I fell asleep and . .. .'

'Yes, he's fine, I'll take you to him shortly. We are taking him to a side room away from the main wards. After all, this is a hospital for women and children, you remember, so we don't want to cause any consternation among the other patients' she added, smiling.

She showed Thérèse the shower room and gave her some surgical scrubs to wear until the others arrived with the rest of her clothes. She helped her tuck her hair into a cap to complete the transformation, and they set off to find the patient. When they arrived, he was lying in a tiny, featureless room at the end of a children's ward. Therese could see the twin rows of beds lined up down the ward, each with its own small occupant.

'It is a medical ward' Marina explained. 'The children have a number of different problems, including malignant tumours of course. They try their best, but we don't have the drugs or equipment available in the West of course. Still, the children are loved, very much loved'. As if to prove the point, a little boy with thick blond hair and piercing blue eyes rushed towards them, smiling broadly and holding out his arms to Marina. She knelt down to hug him, stroking his hair as she was talking to him. He glanced shyly at Thérèse, then dashed back the same way he had come. 'That is Vladimir' she said. 'He is five years old. He reminds me of Illya at his age; a handful, then, as now'. Thérèse grinned, then impulsively, took one of Marina's hands.

'Have you decided what you're going to do?' she asked.

'Oh, I think so. Yes, I think so'.

The other agents had arrived soon after, accompanied by the Commissar, who appeared to be out of sorts. Kat had explained to him that Miss McCaffrey had decided to go to the hospital earlier than planned 'to witness the start of the day'. He wasn't happy, but with a shrug had accompanied them in the taxi.

Napoleon had spent some time further discussing Waverly's message with the two women, glad of the fact that Therese was not present to hear them. He had lain awake for some time in the night, throwing the problem around in his head, being able to see it from both points of view, but not being able to resolve it. He had no doubt that Illya would follow orders as he had always done, but now things were a little, no; a lot different. The Russian wouldn't be worried about his own safety, but about hers, certainly. What was even worse, would he want to lie to her?

Dr Kuryakina met them at the doors to the children's ward. Sabi had Thérèse's cameras, as well as her clothes, which they left in the office. The Commissar looked sharply at Thérèse, who had appeared just after Marina Kuryakina at the ward doors. As she struggled to explain herself, a man rushed up to the Commissar, whispering something urgently in his ear.

'I am sorry, comrades, I will have to leave you for a few minutes; I have been informed that an important decision must be made' he said pompously, turning away from them and rushing down the corridor after the messenger. Marina smiled.

'That will get him out of our hair for a while' she whispered conspiratorially. '_Like son like mother' _thought Napoleon, impressed. She opened the doors of the ward, and ushered them through, indicating the door of a small room on the right.

Illya had managed to lever himself up into a sitting position, which his mother immediately changed, taking out the pillows and forcing him down flat.

'Do as you are told. Lie flat or I will tie you down, do you understand' she said to him. Kuryakin glare met Kuryakin glare, much to Napoleon's amusement, Illya's lips set together in the expression usually reserved for doctors, including it seemed, those related to him.

'Napoleon. Good of you to drop by' he said, caustically. 'Perhaps you could fill me in with your plans for my repatriation, before anyone else decides to cut open my head'.

'Don't be ungrateful, comrade; they've made a good job. Besides, I think the bandage is very becoming' he replied, fingering the swathes of bandage that covered Illya's head. 'It'll help to keep your head warm, now that you haven't got any …'

'Thank you Napoleon, I don't need you to remind me of that fact.' Illya said wearily. He was suddenly aware of another doctor in the room, realising, with a smile, who it was when she got closer.

'Oh hello, I didn't recognise you. Must be the hat. Are you coming out in sympathy?' he said, touching the bandage. She kissed him, taking the opportunity to whisper in his ear '_Te quiero, mi amor'_. His eyes closed momentarily.

'_Te necessito, amado'_ he replied.

Kat had been whispering to Sabi in the corner. She came across to Marina, while smiling at Illya, now laid flat on the bed. They stood together at the end of the bed, with their backs slightly turned away from him.

'Dr Kuryakina', she said quietly, we need to leave as soon as we can. Is he fit enough to travel?'

'Yes, I would think so. I spoke to my colleague this morning and he was confident that there would be no complications _unless, _of course, he decides to be his usual awkward self and takes no notice of any medical advice'. They could feel an arctic breeze issuing from the end of the bed.

'And what about you?' Kat added, 'have you made a decision?' Marina glanced towards Illya.

'Yes' she murmured.

xxxxxxxxxx

The ambulance was waiting outside the same mortuary doors they had entered by, a well-built man with a great shock of red hair sitting at the wheel.

'His name is Anatoly. Their baby was very sick when he was born, but we were able to save him. He drives the ambulance here, and told me that he would help me in any way he could if I ever needed him. So now, I am 'calling in the favour' as they say' Marina told Sabi, as they pushed Illya into the back. She had disappeared into her office shortly before they left, returning with a small suitcase and a bag. She had brought her certificates, a few clothes, and a medium-sized tin, about the size that would contain tea, or biscuits. It seemed a pitifully small amount of possessions, Napoleon thought, but it reminded him of another Kuryakin, arriving in New York with about the same, minimal amount of worldly goods. He wondered what the tin contained.

Thérèse had changed into a pair of black trousers and a black shirt; Napoleon hoped that her future husband wasn't influencing her dress sense as well. Somehow, the sight of her made him think again of Josefina. Whether it was the way she turned her head, or her accent, he didn't know. He suddenly felt weary. He wanted to be home again and he wanted a future that perhaps involved another; something enduring, not just a series of transitory relationships. He wanted her.

The sound of aeroplanes at low altitude alerted them to the fact that they were approaching the airport. The airport perimeter revealed a strong military presence, and the ambulance was waved down just inside the gates. The back doors were thrown open, and they were ordered to get out and to hand over their documents.

'Let me do the talking' Kat whispered to the others, pushing herself forward towards the waiting guards. While one perused the documents slowly, the other guard got into the ambulance, going over to look more closely at the figure lying inside. Illya, dozing on the trolley, was suddenly aware of a figure beside him, the guard's gun level with his eyes. Suddenly, he shouted to his comrade, asking for Illya's papers. Marina Kuryakin began to look agitated, looking anxiously from one face to another, and towards the ambulance, where the guard was looking at the papers and then at Illya. Sabi put her hand on her arm, squeezing it gently.

In the distance, they could see the small jet re-fuelling on the runway. It was literally a matter of meters to the waiting steps. Kat had got inside the ambulance, and was talking in a slightly raised voice to the guard, her face flushed. She turned, jumped down from the back of the ambulance and walked quickly towards them.

'They are suspicious', she said, 'but of him, rather than her, if you get my drift. The guard in the ambulance is claiming that it's not the same man as on the passport – have you ever heard anything so absurd!' she added. As she spoke, they noticed the guard begin to poke at Illya's bandaged head, pulling at the straps.

Before they could stop her, Marina had run back to the ambulance, and began to dispute with the guard, pulling back his hand from the bandages. He turned round, and without hesitating, struck her a glancing blow across the face, knocking her off balance. She fell back, her head striking the side of the ambulance as she collapsed. Napoleon knew instantly what would happen, and had already moved towards the other guard, signalling the women agents towards the ambulance. Illya had managed to come upright with difficulty, and was attempting to get up, when he was pushed back by an explosive force with bright red hair, who, with a roar, hurled himself at the guard, knocking him down before he could possibly know what had hit him. Napoleon chopped the other guard on the back of the neck, catching him as he fell in one graceful movement.

They were lucky that the noise had not attracted the attention of the guards at the gate. Anatoly pulled the guards into the ambulance, and the others jumped in, as he started up and headed towards the plane, now preparing to take off. Illya sat on the edge of the trolley with a dressing in his hand, trying to wipe away the blood from his mother's face, his own expression unreadable. Thérèse took the dressing from his hand, and held it to Marina's head.

'You look after your own head, _amor, _she whispered in his ear, and I'll look after your mama's'. Marina smiled at the exchange. _She's already got the measure of him _she thought.

Napoleon got up as the ambulance stopped in front of the steps of the plane. He swung the back doors open, and could see one of the nurses from UNCLE station at Berlin waiting at the top, just inside the plane.

'Right', he shouted above the noise of the plane, 'injured Kuryakins first, followed by the able-bodied'. Illya looked up to the heavens, and held on tight to Napoleon as they walked slowly up the steps towards the waiting arms of the German nurses. As he saw them emerge from the plane's door, he blanched slightly.

'What's wrong?' Napoleon said, looking at the Russian agent's drawn face with interest.

'Napoleon, if I didn't know you better, I would think you had arranged this deliberately. But of course, you haven't experienced the delights of Ingrid and Helga, have you?'

'Ingrid and Helga? You are kidding me. They look more like Brunhilda and Siegelunde to me' Napoleon replied, grinning, as the two nurses trapped Illya between them, escorting him towards a waiting bed in the front part of the aeroplane. He looked back, his eyes searching for Thérèse, or indeed for anyone who might rescue him from their clutches.

The trouble with Ingrid and Helga was that they didn't understand the word 'no', Illya thought. Whatever one said, however much one protested, they just laughed in that impossibly cheerful way, and just carried on doing it. They were doing it now. As if this wasn't bad enough, he heard the unmistakeable tones of another torturer coming from the front of the aeroplane.

'Well laddie, what have ye been doing to yourself now, eh?'. Illya's eyes closed.

'I thought you had retired and gone fishing' he said through gritted teeth, as Ingrid and Helga cheerfully pinned him to the bed and tied him down, ready for take-off.

'Aye, son, that I should be, but Mr Waverly persuaded me to stay on a wee bit longer, to make sure you return in one piece' he replied, equally cheerfully. 'And these young lassies here are going to help me'. Illya groaned inwardly.

'Thank you Doctor McDonald' he said, politely.

xxxxxxxx

Everyone had taken the opportunity to catch up on their sleep during the long journey, including Napoleon. It was still light however, when he woke. He looked at his watch. There were still four hours to go before arrival in New York, the plane having landed briefly in Berlin to pick up fuel and supplies. He had calculated that it would be evening before they arrived; he had four hours to brief Illya and the others; except Thérèse that was.

He got out of his seat and walked slowly forwards towards the front end of the plane, where the medical section was. He hoped that Illya might be awake. When he pulled back the curtain into the forward compartment, it seemed like a hive of activity. Helga and Ingrid beamed at him from either side of the bed, where they were changing Illya's dressing. His eyes were closed in resignation at his fate, Napoleon thought, as they cleaned the wounds and re-applied the bandages. Dr McDonald stood at the end of the bed, chatting to Marina Kuryakina. They both looked up as he came in, Dr McDonald coming forward to shake his hand.

'Oh hello Mr Solo, grand to see you again' he beamed. 'The lassies are just attending to Mr Kuryakin here, and he'll soon be ready for a chat, I'm sure'. Napoleon came round so that Illya could see him, the 'lassies' smiling broadly at him as he came past.

'I hope he's behaving well for you' he said to them, glancing at the set face of his partner on the bed. They both giggled charmingly, he thought, and Ingrid answered,

'_Ja! _Illya is a very good boy, isn't he Helga?' Helga nodded vigorously, patting Illya's bandage that she had just finished winding round his head. He drew up a stool and bent over near Illya.

'Tell them to go away for a few minutes' Illya murmured, '_please_'. Napoleon looked meaningfully at Peter McDonald, who immediately rounded everybody up and directed them towards the rear cabin, mentioning drinks and dinner in an affable way as he held the curtain open for the women.

When they were alone, Illya opened his eyes.

'Well, no doubt you are going to discuss what will happen when we arrive in New York, and I have a feeling that I am not going to like it' he said, twisting his head round towards Napoleon. Solo leaned back on the stool, debating in his mind how to pitch the order to Kuryakin without giving him a real relapse, never mind a fake one.

Ye-es, you always were perceptive, Tovarisch' he said, trying to sound friendly.

'Cut the crap, Napoleon' Illya replied. 'Let me guess. In some way, which no doubt you will explain to me shortly, I am to be, yet again, a sitting duck for our two little THRUSHies to come out of hiding and take a pot shot at. Correct?'

'Correct'.

'So, let me see;' Illya stared straight at Napoleon, pulling himself over onto his side. 'Even though I don't actually know either of these little birds, they think I do, correct?'

'Correct'.

'Well, if that is the case, then, logically speaking, I need to be in some way, unable to divulge this important information, correct?

'Correct'.

The Russian lay back on the bed, his face now almost as pale as the bandages wreathing his head. Napoleon was silent. It was pointless saying anything; the relentless logic of his partner would say it all for him anyway. Illya continued remorselessly,

'In that case, I will need to be either paraplegic or unconscious, am I right?' Napoleon nodded, admiring and pitying his partner at the same time. He wondered whether the logic would extend to the final part of the plan. As if to answer his thoughts, Illya spoke,

'And presumably, as few people as possible will know of my true state, including Tess, I imagine'. He looked at Napoleon momentarily for confirmation, then looked away, his face impassive under the bandage. Napoleon, for once, couldn't guess what he was going to say next. He suddenly realised that this was the first time probably, that Illya had had to make this sort of decision, where someone other than himself, someone he loved, was affected. He felt sorry for him.

The silence between them seemed to stretch into hours, but eventually Illya turned towards him again.

'You have to promise me, Napoleon, that you will protect her, whatever happens', his voice faltered, '_whatever _happens to me.'

'Absolutely. And, Illya, nothing is going to happen to either of you. I have waited for this for a long time, and I will not be done out of it now'.

'You will not be done out of what, Napoleon?'

'Making you appear presentable enough to marry that lovely girl'.

Illya laid back on the bed with a very deep sigh.

'Now go and fetch that 'lovely girl' please, and then you can go away and make your wardrobe plans. And you are not to speak to my mother about anything other than my medical condition. Is that clear?

'Oh crystal'.

xxxxxxxx

Thérèse looked out of the window. The setting sun cast huge arcs of rosy light across the sky, filling the cabin with its dying light. She lay back in her seat and looked across at Marina Kuryakina. She had taken the little tin out of her bag, and gently withdrawn some tattered photographs from inside.

'May I see?' Thérèse asked tentatively. Marina laid the photographs onto the tray in front of their seats. There were three of them. The first was of a man in military costume. He looked out at the camera with a mixture of pride and resignation on his lean face. Something about his expression was instantly recognisable.

'Yes, that is Illya's father' she said. 'This was taken in 1940, just before he went back to the front. I never saw him again'. She gazed at the picture, then returned it to the tin. The second was an even earlier one. A young girl with long flaxen hair, radiating happiness; she was very pregnant indeed. Therese thought she looked like photos of her mother just before Gabi and she were born, and mentioned this to Marina.

'You're very perceptive. I was pregnant with twins; it was just before they were born – I look huge don't I?' she said, her face full of conflicting emotions. Thérèse picked up the photo.

'But Illya is an only child, isn't he? So . ..'. She realised as soon as she had said it. Marina looked intently at the photo.

'Yes, Illya's an only child. But he was a twin, an identical twin. Illya was born first – well, he's always in a hurry, isn't he? Then his brother came, but he was breach presentation. The understanding of pregnancy and childbirth was poor then, you understand. He was strangled, the cord was round his neck, and it strangled him. He was a beautiful baby, they both were. Illya lived, and Valentin died.' Thérèse's heart lurched with the name.

'He was called Valentin?'

'Yes. It's a lovely name, don't you think? When I look at Illya sometimes, I try to imagine another one just like him called Valentin' she said pensively. Thérèse thought about the photograph of Illya at the coalmine. The irony of it was staggering. Yet he had never even mentioned it to her.

'He's never said anything' she murmured.

'He will. I think he finds it hard to talk about it, because it's rather unreal to him. I had nine months of Valentin, and I held him in my arms'. She passed the final photo to Thérèse.

'Here he is' she said, smiling, 'aged five'.

'Oooh, cute!' she exclaimed, her nose wrinkling as she smiled. The little boy had come up quite close to the camera, his eyes wide with curiosity. He was wearing shorts and a shirt, with a little cotton neckerchief tied round his neck. His blond fringe was cut straight across his face framing the serious expression below.

Neither of them had noticed Napoleon standing behind, leaning over the seats. A smirk began to play across his face.

'Don't tell him you've seen that' she said, laughing, 'or he will arrange for me to be deported, I am sure'.

xxxxxxxxxx

She found him lying on his side, his face calm in repose, his eyes closed. She knelt down, stroking his face with her fingers. Somebody had given him a shave, she could guess who; his face felt smooth and soft.

'You don't move when Helga comes at you with a razor' he whispered. She buried her face into his, searching for his lips, feeling his hands stroking her head, running his fingers through her hair.

Finally, he pushed her face slightly away from his. He looked at her.

'Thérèse, do you trust me' he said.

'Of course, _corazon_, you know that'. He felt weak with desire when she called him that; the simple Spanish word; heart. The centre of her being. He pressed on.

'When we return, please remember that. It may be a little while before things, well, 'return to normal' as it were. I am afraid that, if we are to continue together, this is what our life will be like. Do you understand?'.

'Illya, the last weeks have shown me how 'our life will be like' as you say. I do trust you, and I do love you. Is that OK? '. He looked at her, crouched down by the bed, her beautiful eyes taking him in, loving him. He prayed that it would be enough to get her through the next few days and weeks.

'Help me up' he said, 'before they come back, I don't want to do this lying down'. He had already started to sit up, so she didn't see the point of arguing with him. To her consternation, however, he started to get off the bed.

'What do you think you're doing?' she whispered fiercely, 'it's been less than twenty four hours since your operation'. He looked at her, eyes unblinking; she shrugged, and put her arm round his and helped him to the floor, praying that someone wouldn't walk in on them. He steadied himself for a minute, then turned towards her.

'I believe I should be kneeling now, but you will have to forego that, in my condition'. He pursed his lips. She suddenly saw in her mind the photo of the little boy staring into the camera; so serious, so cute. She started to smile, trying to avoid it turning into a grin at this, she supposed, most solemn moment. He had luckily not noticed, for once, and continued,

'Marie Thérèse Carmel, I . . I' he seemed to struggle for a moment. She started to laugh, despite herself. 'Oh, just marry me and put me out of my misery!' he said. She had thought to say something smart, but just holding him seemed enough, until she felt other hands gently lifting him back onto the bed.

_'Ja, _he will make a beautiful husband!' whispered Helga. Thérèse smiled. '_Don't tell me they were all listening'_ she thought.

She leaned over the bed to kiss him. His eyes opened again.

'Did I pass out?' he murmured. She nodded. 'Listen' he said, can you ask Kat to do something for me?' Thérèse nodded again, wondering what was coming.

'If Napoleon has been anywhere near my mother, make sure he is body searched before we get to New York. I would like my reputation to be kept intact'. His eyes closed again. _'Too late_' she thought, smiling.

CHAPTER 14

June

Fraulein Doktor Winnifred Engels stretched her hand across the black desk with a feeling of satisfaction. She had cleared out all the detritus associated with that repulsive pharmacist, and now she was in charge. Surgery, that sublime activity, could replace all those grubby little mind-altering experiments that he enjoyed so much; like some little schoolboy playing with his chemistry set, she thought. But this was just a stopping-off place, purely temporary, until she and her team moved to their clinic in warmer, more pleasant surroundings.

Until then, she could move the research forward a little; after all, she was interested in so many things. First, there was all that work on twins that had come out of the camps; it was a shame to waste it. It would be interesting to experiment with a few 'volunteers' she thought. But this was as nothing compared with her obstetric work. It was so interesting to remove the organs of these women, and it did provide a service as well – to ensure that no more vermin like themselves polluted the earth. Lastly, there was the rather satisfying service she performed for THRUSH. Torture through surgery: so subtle; so skilled; so satisfying.

A harsh rap on the door disturbed her thoughts. She could see, even through the frosted glass of the door, who was there. Phineas Schleicher opened the door and marched through, not bothering to wait for an invitation. Winnifred could see he was angry, although she couldn't think it was with her. She had reported the information Fedorenko had given her, which at the time, Schleicher seemed pleased with. So what was the problem now?

'Ah, welcome Herr Schleicher! And I believe it is congratulations too!' she said in an enthusiastic voice. She had heard that he had been promoted by THRUSH central, on the back of the success of the deep sleeper programme.

'_Danke_, Doktor. And thank you for your efficient work also. You will soon be rewarded, once the new clinic is completed. However, I need to speak to you now about other matters, which must be resolved immediately, if we are not to fail in our plan at the final stage'.

'I presume' she said, 'you are referring to the problem who is Illya Nikovetch Kuryakin?'. As she said the names, her hand itched for a scalpel, and she began to make imaginary incisions on the table top. Schleicher looked askance at her and she stopped.

'Exactly so, Doktor. Your information was confirmed by my reliable source within U.N.C.L.E. New York. At this moment, he is being flown back to their headquarters. My contact is absolutely certain of two things; one, that he knows the identity of both of our agents, and secondly, that he has not yet passed this information on, due to his unfortunate traumatic brain injury. After discussion, it was felt that we must instruct our agents to do two things: first to find out if the girl knows anything, and secondly, to prevent Mr Kuryakin from opening his mouth ever again. Of course, whether she knows anything or not, it would be prudent I think, for her to be permanently removed, along with her tediously annoying boyfriend. We cannot let anyone get in the way of our ultimate goal – the control of UNCLE itself – from the inside'.

Winnifred's mouth twitched slightly. Fedorenko had told her of the confrontation she had had with his lover at the coalmine. She sounded wild, uncontrollable. The very type of sub-human being Kuryakin would enjoy mating with, like two feral cats. That imbecile Fetting had failed to exterminate the Russian vermin with his stupid plans. It looked as if he might also have revealed the names of agents XS and XC. She hoped that the organisation would remember this.

'Well Doktor' Schleicher continued, 'Central have decided that Solo needs to be kept alive at the moment. The promotion of agent XS must be seen to be gradual; due to talent, rather than assassination if you see what I mean. We do not want agent XS to be activated yet. Agent XC will have to carry out these orders. However, agent XS can be used to assist, I am sure'. She nodded, a thin smile drawn across her lips. 'So, the targets must be Kuryakin, whose death should be easy to disguise, and the girl. Any ideas, Doktor?'

She rubbed her fingers and thumbs together in a strange, circling action.

'Oh yes, Herr Schleicher, as a matter of fact I do'.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

They could see the ambulance waiting on the tarmac as the plane taxied towards the terminal building. Napoleon took a sharp inward breath and turned towards the supine form of his partner lying on the trolley, ready to go. He knelt down beside him.

'Now, you understand what is going to happen? As I told you, there have been a few changes since you last put in an appearance. Medical is now on Floor 8, and there are some new rooms, with facilities nobody except Waverly and us know about at the moment. Dr McDonald is going to sedate you now'.

Illya turned over towards the still kneeling Napoleon.

'Why is he going to do that? I am able to act as if I were unconscious you know, Napoleon' he said, his brow furrowed. Napoleon sighed. He had agreed with Dr McDonald that they would do this to make the preparations they had to do easier, but really, because he was afraid of what might happen when Thérèse saw him. Illya was indeed the 'arch dissembler' as Sabi had said, but this time, it would be different. They could sedate him, but sadly, there was no way they could protect her from what she would have to endure.

'Take it from me, Illya, please. This is the best way'. Surprisingly, the Russian agent lay back silently.

Kat had taken Marina to the back of the plane. Sabi watched as she explained what was going to happen, watching the older woman's face change, becoming set and serious. She had returned to her seat, and had sat silently for some time, her hands loosely clasped together, head tilted downwards.

They had watched as Thérèse had talked animatedly to Illya, her body language showing excitement, anticipation of the future, of their future together. Sabi could hardly bear to watch them; she took Kat's hand and held it; the Ukrainian agent stroking her hair.

'It will be over soon, _liebling_, she whispered, 'then they will have, as you said we have, wholeness.'

The ambulance with Illya, the two German nurses, and Dr McDonald pulled away. Thérèse realised, to her dismay, that the rest of them were expected to pass through normal immigration. She pulled out her large, dark blue, British Passport with its gold crest. Looking at it, she felt a rush of emotion for her native land; for its old fashioned ways and traditions. Traditions. She was the result of two very different cultures. Now she was going to marry someone from yet another part of the world. _God help our children _she thought.

The private car pulled away from the forecourt in front of La Guardia with them all packed inside. To Thérèse, the atmosphere in the car seemed false; the laughter too high pitched and loud, the jokes forced. Later, she looked across at Napoleon, but he was looking out of the window, seemingly oblivious to anyone else there. This would be her first visit to UNCLE; she realised that she didn't have any idea where it was, only some vague idea that it was near the UN building where Jo worked.

Jo. Thérèse needed her so much at this moment, that it made her head ache. But not as much as she needed him, needed him to be coming home with her, like normal couples did. Doing normal things, like shopping; cooking; making love. At the thought of it, she began to sweat slightly. What would his reaction be when he found out she had never . . . It wasn't as if she thought it was wrong, but until now, she just hadn't wanted to make that commitment. But with him, it seemed so entirely natural to commit herself to him. Loving him was effortless. Looking round, she suddenly felt terribly scared. She started to tremble a little.

The car slid to a halt in a dark back street leading down to the Hudson river, pulling in behind the ambulance. Something was wrong. Thérèse pushed the handle down sharply and almost fell out of the car, stumbling towards the open doors of the ambulance. She could see the trolley, lit up intermittently with the flashing light on the vehicle. They had surrounded him, there seemed to be tubes everywhere; an IV drip laid on top of him; an oxygen mask covering his face. The blank doors of the building had swung open, as if to swallow him up. Her mouth opened but nothing came out. She was transfixed to the spot as the trolley slid past, alive with people seemingly all over the still body on the white bed. Finally, her voice connected. 'IL-L-Y-A!' emerged as a long, agonised scream. Then they were gone, the doors closed, and she was left there, the others, dark pillars standing behind her.

xxxxxxxxxx

The cab pulled up outside the house, the curtains of the ground floor revealing the bright interior rooms; the upstairs dark. Napoleon had attempted to explain what had happened. Illya had arrested in the ambulance. He was alive, but unconscious. He had supported her up the stairs and rang the bell. The door opened, framing Jo. Delight to consternation flashed across her face within seconds. Brushing Solo aside, she reached out for her sister, stroking her head as she sobbed into her shoulder. He ran down the steps and retrieved the bags from the street.

He stood in the kitchen, waiting for Jo. After a while, when the sobbing had ceased, she came back, her face set, mask-like. She ritualistically filled the kettle with water and reached out for the teapot. Without turning, he heard her say 'tea?', not expecting a reply. She finished her task, then turned round to face him. She walked straight up to him and hit him round the face, making a dull red mark on his cheek.

'Make it short and make it convincing' she said, her eyes like hard, flashing gems in the subdued lighting of the kitchen units. He told her, not bothering to lie about the final part of the story.

'Have you any idea what she is going through, any at all?' she almost growled at him. 'Up until she met that man she was happy. She was independent, what you'd call a 'free spirit'. Now look at her. That's love is it?'. She came up close to him and he could feel her chest heaving up and down, her face staring angrily into his. Her fists came up and she began to beat his chest. 'Damn you, damn you!' she began to say in fierce low tones, her fists pummelling him until he grabbed them, and pulled her close. He felt her whole body tense, then incredibly, grip his body tightly like a vice. He looked at her.

'Yes, that is what love is, Josefina'.

They had left their clothes where they had pulled them off, except that she had hurled the green book into the waste paper bin as she had pulled off his jacket. He hadn't minded. She had pushed him down onto the bed and sat astride him, riding his erect penis until he was completely inside her, heaving and sighing with pleasure and gratification. He had rolled her over gently and contentedly kissed her breasts, feeling them swell and harden in his mouth. Afterwards they had lain facing each other, eye to eye, mouth to mouth, his arm caressing the back of her neck where her hair was cut so straight and sharp.

'Jo' he said quietly, 'if this seems like bad timing, so be it, but I couldn't go on much longer . .'

' Me too, soft lad' she whispered.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Kat and Sabi had taken the first shift in the claustrophobic room, sorting out the technical equipment to provide them with vision and sound from the room next door. To all extents and purposes, the side ward in the Intensive Care Unit looked much the same as the others in the corridor. However, a small door in the adjacent shower room revealed the secret area, with its two-way mirror and high-tech equipment. Through the mirror they watched the nurses attending to the silent figure of the Russian agent.

The news had spread with alacrity round the building, as they had hoped. They controlled the closed circuit cameras revealing who was coming into the unit, and his room could be locked from the inside. This enabled them to alert Illya, through the tiny receiver inserted deep into his ear, that he had visitors, and more importantly, who they were. It also enabled him to relax for short periods, unseen by anyone except those behind the glass. The two German nurses monitored the room as well from the Nurses' station in the corridor outside the room.

Napoleon had explained to Jo the reasons why they thought Thérèse should be kept ignorant of Illya's true condition. He began to wonder, as she frowned at his explanation, whether they were doing the right thing. THRUSH almost certainly knew of her existence, and would probably try to find out if she knew anything. Illya was unable to protect her; in truth, he was vulnerable himself, laid out like a sacrificial lamb waiting for the slaughter, Napoleon thought.

He reflected on their conversation in the aeroplane. He had promised to protect her, and that is what he would do. And he had an added inducement now. He was alone in the room, the girls having gone to an UNCLE apartment for a rest. He sat back in the chair and put his feet on the table in front of him. As he gazed at the still figure on the bed, he heard the familiar tones, but rather disembodied now.

'Glad you could make the effort to come along, Napoleon. The girls wondered where you were. Getting on better with my future sister-in-law now? '.

Napoleon sat up straight, staring through the glass. _How does he do that? _he thought, _he'll be saying he can be in two places at once next._ He noticed that Illya had rolled over onto his stomach, his bandaged head showing above the sheets.

'There's no need to get in a sweat about it. We worked it out between us. After all, there isn't a lot to do around here, apart from playing half-dead, or being scrubbed clean by the Valkyries of course' the familiar voice continued, relentlessly. 'Now, tell me about my girl – is she alright?'. Something about the tone of Illya's voice revealed the underlying feeling beneath the light comment.

'Illya, she is shocked and in pain, but she is coping. She's tough you know'. The image of her with the knife round that Ukrainian battleaxe's throat was still with him.

'She may be, but we are expecting a great deal of her, and her alone. I am not even sure she will forgive me when she finds out I have deceived her like this. I am expecting to do penance for a long time'.

'Mm. That sounds like it might be fun, comrade'. He heard a guttural sound and something in Russian. Something untranslatable.

Out of the corner of his eye, Napoleon noticed a figure on the CCTV advancing along the corridor towards the ITU.

'You have a visitor, _mon ami, _Napoleon murmured. 'Don't panic, it's Waverly'. The next moment, the door opened, and Helga showed Alexander Waverly into the room. He looked across at the blank wall, then down at Illya, now lying on his back,

'Welcome back, Mr Kuryakin. I trust you are being well taken care of while you are here?' he asked, peering over Illya. 'Dr McDonald has assured me that you will make a full recovery from your injuries given time. Still, you have a few days here to rest, no doubt'. Napoleon couldn't quite believe he was saying this, bearing in mind the risk he was exposing himself to.

Waverly seemed to have a sixth sense, as he suddenly said 'Hopefully, Mr Solo, you are doing your best to protect Mr Kuryakin whilst he is, let us say, 'at risk of attack' here'. Napoleon turned on the microphone into the room.

'Yes sir, of course. Miss Klose, Miss Tereschenko and I have organised a rota for cover, which should ensure protection if there is an attack, and, hopefully, lead to the apprehension of the enemy agents'.

'Quite, Mr Solo. However, I would not expect them to show themselves immediately. I think they will wait until they think things have quietened down. I would have thought they might try to contact Miss McCaffery first, to see if she knows anything. It might be expedient, Mr Solo, if you allow Miss Klose and Miss Tereshenko to supervise Mr Kuryakin, and concentrate on offering Miss McCaffery your personal protection over the next few days'.

Napoleon had stood up, and could see the look of disquiet on Illya's face. He knew it was causing him distress to be so helpless here, but his injuries were severe enough to mean that he would have been unable to help her anyway. Illya levered himself up on one elbow, to look at Waverly and the wall.

'Sir', he said slowly, 'how long then is it envisaged I remain unconscious? Waverly looked at him.

'For as long as it takes, Mr Kuryakin. But don't worry, if they don't make any response, perhaps the suggestion that there has been an improvement in your responses might send them fluttering along here fairly rapidly. In the meantime, I expect you to follow medical advice and take as much rest as you can. You have been though a very difficult few months, and if my wife is to be believed, you need to be fully fit for a major event in your life in the near future'.

Napoleon was sure he saw the normally dour agent blush to the roots of where his hair normally should be.

Xxxxxxx

He had been given a key, so he found them having tea in the back room, his ears following the sound of cups chinking and the higher pitch of women talking. The three women looked up as he came in; looked at each other, and then smiled, Jo getting up and drawing him down next to her on the sofa.

'Hello, darling'. _Darling. She didn't regret it then. _ He sat down rather awkwardly beside her, Thérèse smirking and Marina leaning back in her chair, giving him an arch glance, Kuryakin style. They had obviously been discussing him, amongst other things; the slight flush in Jo's face seemed to confirm it. However, despite the distraction of sitting next to her, he knew he needed to discuss other, more serious matters, with the women.

Thérèse was looking earnestly at him from across the room. She looked strained and even slightly unkempt, her hair just roughly tied back. As usual, Jo read his mind.

'Go on, tell her how he is, for goodness sake; look at the state of her,' she said, as if Thérèse wasn't there. Marina looked fondly at Thérèse and added,

'perhaps we could visit him together, Thérèse. I am sure he will respond to a little nagging, don't you think?', her blue eyes twinkling a little. She had been staying with Dr McDonald, and Napoleon forgot in the crisis unfolding at UNCLE, that she had been left to cope with a whole new life with very little support, as well as dealing with the fact that her only child was recovering from a brain injury and at the same time 'lying in wait' literally for an enemy to attempt to kill him. Yet she seemed outwardly calm. It must be a Kuryakin thing, he decided; stoic resistance in the face of apparently insurmountable obstacles.

'Well, Illya is stabilised now, and is breathing by himself. The doctors assure us that he will recover consciousness eventually, and that he can probably hear what is being said to him. So, he's ready for visitors, ladies'. He cringed at his own words; they sounded patronising; like a medical textbook that would fool nobody. He was glad he wasn't trying to fool Dr Kuryakina; her intelligent eyes bored into him, making him squirm.

'Right' Jo was saying suddenly, 'we have work to do then. You two need to visit Goldilocks, then we three are going on a girls day out with bells on it'.

'Goldilocks?' said Marina, a faint smile on her lips. Thérèse, who had been silent throughout, turned to Marina.

'Oh, she has a name for everyone. She hasn't even met him yet, just seen him around, so she remembers the hair. He's not much of a Goldilocks now though, is he?' she said, her eyes filling with tears. The other two women gathered round her, talking in low whispers and hugging her. Napoleon envied them.

He thought of Illya, lying there, waiting. He mentally listed the other agents in Section 2, trying to evaluate the likelihood of their treachery: April; definitely no. Mark; highly unlikely. Sheena Grant; pain in the ass, but he didn't think so. Todd Andrews and Bill Gerrard; so straight he couldn't believe it sometimes, but he just couldn't imagine them being it either. Cal; clever, good looking, a very good agent. Vaz; funny, talented, loyal in the extreme. He just couldn't see any of them as an enemy agent, yet he knew that one of them most certainly was. And the other, the control? That could be anyone in the office. Anyone. He cleared his throat.

'Um, Mr Waverly has suggested that I, er, stay with you girls to offer some protection over the next few days' he said. 'It may be that an attempt is made to find out if Illya had told you anything, Thérèse'.

'But he hasn't' she said, looking confused. 'What do I have to do, refuse to speak to anyone?'

'No, but just be aware. Anyway, I will be here to protect you' Napoleon replied, thinking of the promise he had made.

'Protect me? From what?' she said, her eyes narrowing. 'Oh, I know, I bet Illyusha has organised this. He rambled on about something in the plane, but I thought he was suffering from post-operative confusion' she said, smiling.

'Oh, Illya's rarely confused, especially about you' he said.

'Well, don't think you're coming with us on our day out, soft lad' Jo interposed, 'you can go and do your James Bond stuff elsewhere'. Thérèse got up, trying to smooth down her hair.

'What exactly _are_ we doing on our day out? She said.

'Oh, Marina needs clothes, and you, my dear sister, need a makeover. I bet your Russian has never seen your legs yet, and as for your hair . . .'.

xxxxxxxx

The stream of visitors was increasing as the day progressed, but not the visitor he wanted. Lying there, he was surprised, even touched by the reaction of some of his colleagues to his condition. Some of the girls were fairly predictable; Connie even had wept all over him, and told him how much she cared between loud sobs. David Miller came later that morning. Kat had alerted him to the visit before the door opened and in he strode. He sat down next to the bed, and, to Illya's surprise, held his hand, squeezing it lightly.

'Get better soon, Illya' he murmured. 'We will talk then. I have some explaining to do'. Illya tried not to let his brow crease. It was hard.

Finally, Sabi had whispered 'special visitor, darling, keep calm now' and she had come in, Chanel No 5 spreading round the room, hinting of her presence there even before he could hear her. He heard her indrawn breath, then her lips on his. If this was purgatory, he was in it. He had so wanted her to come, but hadn't realised how hard it would be when she did. Luckily, he was lying almost prone, his face towards hers.

'Hola, amado, Que tal?' He longed to reply to her. Calling him 'sweetheart' seemed so endearing he could feel the automatic response of his body. He was glad he wasn't lying on his back. He found himself almost willing this assassin to come and have a go, just so that he could end this and go home with her. He tried to force back any response. Eventually she kissed him and withdrew, replaced at his side by his mother.

Here was another kind of agony. He wanted to know how she was dealing with her new life, and had stupidly forgotten to ask Napoleon yesterday. Now he had to rely on her to tell him, as he knew that Thérèse was still in the room. She spoke to him in Russian, her whispered tones bringing back feelings and images he had almost forgotten about. She assured him that she was well, and was staying with Dr McDonald. He made a mental note to try extra hard with him next time in gratitude for his kindness. After they had gone, he heard Sabi whisper 'well done darling, that was very hard'.

The next week felt like the longest of his life. Thérèse came in at some time every day. Several days she brought some kind of stringed instrument and entertained him with a variety of music; classical guitar, beautifully played; sweet folk music, sung gently. She had quite a deep, strong voice, perfectly suited to the songs she sang. One day she came in and told him she looked different; 'but of course you insist on being unconscious, so you can't see'. His mind was working overtime, wondering what she had done. That morning, Helga had removed the remaining bandage and the stitches from his head. It felt better, but he probably looked awful, he thought.

Thérèse had come in later. She had run her hand over the growing soft stubble on his head, caressing his free ear with her lips. Purgatory.

When she had gone, he turned over and found something. A piece of hair, plaited, about twelve or thirteen inches long, tied to the top of his headboard. Sabi and Kat heard him say, hoarsely,

'What has she done?'.

'Don't worry darling' Sabi cooed, 'she looks beautiful. It's still long, just not as long. And she was wearing a skirt, a mini-skirt, Illyusha!' He was sorry he had missed it.

The next day, she had returned, but with someone else. Kat had told him she was coming, and that there was a, as she called him 'monk' with her. It could only be her brother, he thought. Illya was lying on his back, with just a sheet over him, as the heat of the room stifled him. Father Gabriel McCaffery had the same English northern accent as his sister, but with deeper tones.

He felt her near to him, her hands laid gently on his arm. The room became quiet, only faint sounds from the street down below and from outside the room interrupting the tranquillity within. He realised finally that they were praying. Then the firm pressure of hands on his head and the gentle repetition of words told him that something else was being offered. A ritual; the anointing of the sick. Head, hands, the ancient practice now offered for him.

_"Through this holy anointing, may the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit",_

To begin with, he fought back the feelings of anguish within him, then just focused on the sensations.

_"May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up."_

Touch, hearing, replacing what he couldn't experience with his eyes.

Gabriel stopped his sister in the corridor outside the Unit. It was the first time he had seen this man that his sister was apparently going to marry – if he recovered.

'Tess, he's been unconscious for how long?' he asked. She looked surprised.

'Since we came back; that will be eight days now. Why?' she asked him.

'Oh, nothing really'. He patted the side of his brown habit, where the pocket was. 'Look, I've left something behind. You go on, I'll see you later at Mass, OK?

She looked slightly unconvinced, but walked off, her head down in concentration. He turned and walked back to the room, Helga showing him in again. He sat down by the side of the still supine form on the bed.

'Mr Kuryakin, perhaps you can explain just what you are doing trying to fool my sister that you are unconscious' he said simply. There was no immediate reaction, then the figure on the bed turned over and opened his eyes.

'How did you know?' Illya said calmly.

'I have ministered to many deeply unconscious patients even in the short time I have been a priest' he replied. 'But I have never seen one show such pain on his face as you did when I anointed you. She didn't notice it because she was deep in prayer, but I did. You must have suffered a great deal trying to hide your feelings from her' he added, gently.

'I have to do it. I cannot explain why, but yes, Father, it is the hardest thing I've ever done in my life, and I'm not proud of it either' Illya replied, his eyes downcast. There was a silence between them, then Gabriel spoke.

'She will understand. She is immensely strong, but not in the ways other people think of. Her strength comes from her inner life of prayer, do you understand?', he looked Illya in the eye, his face resembling his sister's; the same beautiful tawny eyes under long thick eyelashes. 'She has told me about your experiences. I don't know how much you value prayer, but I can tell you she will have supported you by prayer, because that is her weapon' he said.

Illya was thrown back to his experience in the church in Berlin; the words on the sheet that returned to him during the ordeal under Fetting; the feeling of calm he had experienced when his whole life was being stripped away from him.

'I recognise it and I think I can say that without it things might have been different' he said quietly. 'But for myself, I am struggling to reconcile my life with the beliefs that that prayer demands. And,' his face became set, 'I sometimes wonder whether it will pull us apart'. Gabriel put his hand on Illya's arm.

'You need to stop being so hard on yourself. Your life is a journey, and your journey has just landed you with my sister for a companion. Believe me, she will give you plenty of space to work these things out. Besides which', he added, 'you get a free priest and a nun with the McCaffery family package!' Illya smiled.

'Perhaps you might like to drop in again, Father, since I obviously need a great deal of spiritual counsel if I am to make a worthy husband' he added.

'Tomorrow then?'

xxxxxx

The instrument came in a box, indicating its shape. It seemed like the whole of UNCLE New York had come out of their respective offices to take a look at Illya Kuryakin's fiancée, as she walked into the commissary with Napoleon. The guys were in general agreement that he was a clever bastard keeping her quiet for so long, and the girls were mainly disappointed that it wasn't them sitting by his bedside every day.

Nobody was sure whose idea it was to give her something, but they all contributed, and the little lute was bought. Somebody deputed Cal to take it round, but afterwards, nobody was clear who that was. She was in the garden when the door bell rang. She went to the door, expecting Napoleon, but she had been introduced to the smiling young man before, and invited him in. It was a warm, humid day, typical for the summer months. She had been trying to sort out the pots of flowers that had been neglected in the last few weeks, despite her sister, who was no gardener, watering them when she remembered.

He followed her out into the garden, where they sat at the little table and chairs which Thérèse had bought and made a little arbour for, at the end of the garden, by the brick wall, now covered in a beautiful rambling rose. She told him it was called 'rambling rector' an old variety with single, rose-tinged cream flowers that cascaded down around them. She fetched tea for them, and they chatted, mainly about Illya, and her hopes for their future. He had the parcel by his side, and, after tea, he brought it up and put it on the table.

'The folks at the office wanted you to have this, Thérèse. Just think of it as an early wedding present, I guess' he said, smiling broadly.

Napoleon lugged the many carrier bags up the stairs and waited at the door for Jo, who was paying off the cab. They had spent the day together doing what other couples did, shopping; eating at a café; spending time together. He had looked at his watch and, with a twinge of regret, suggested they should head home to check on Therese. He looked round for Thérèse as he came into the living room at the back of the house, throwing down the bags with relief. Then he looked up, and out through the large French windows that lead to the garden. She was standing there; the parcel on the table unwrapped, revealing the delicate instrument, its strings glinting in the sun. Cal was leaning against the wall, smelling one of the roses whilst talking to her in his easy way.

Something, perhaps experience or just instinct jerked Napoleon forward. He ran towards her and, grabbing her hand, started to pull her towards the house. Behind her astonished face as she moved forward, he could see Cal, grabbing the lute, start to follow, his fingers touching the strings.

The world seemed to lurch to a halt in the next second. The sound of the blast was followed instantaneously by the crashing of the glass from the back windows. Napoleon pushed her down, flattening himself over her like a bird over its prey, his arms outstretched. As the glass came raining down upon them, and a strange whistling sound as hundreds of objects embedded themselves into the ground around where they lay, Napoleon heard someone screaming.

A shard of glass like a crystal dagger stuck out of Napoleon's leg at a right angle, surrounded by a sea of glass and other, nastier objects from the bomb. Thérèse crawled out from beneath him, with Jo shouting directions to prevent her from moving him too much. The French windows hung open behind him, glassless, a witness to the destruction that lay beyond. The two women concentrated on him, forcing themselves not to look too closely at what the garden held. Thérèse stumbled towards the kitchen, coming back with a tablecloth ripped into two strips. It was only just in time. The glass began to tilt, causing a great spurt of blood to splatter the wall opposite.

They bound his leg, twisting the cloth round to form the tourniquet, both now oblivious to the destruction around them, or the cuts and bruises covering the younger sister. Jo wiped his face with a wet cloth, speaking to him, almost lying on the floor to whisper into his ear whilst she tried to stop the flow of blood from the cuts over his body. Then they were surrounded, hands lifting him onto a stretcher, whilst others worked on a more grisly scene in the garden.

They took Thérèse in the second ambulance, Jo following. With a shudder, Thérèse was aware of the same black doors opening for Napoleon and for her as well. Then it was up to the same floor that she had walked along such a short time ago. Now there were three of them injured, two unconscious. And one was dead. What could possibly be worse than this?

CHAPTER 15

June

The surgery lasted through the night, but at last Dr McDonald came out from the theatre, pulling the cap off his head and smiling at the two sisters lying on the sofas in the waiting room. Therese jumped up, a plaster peeping out from behind her long fringe.

He noticed the other plasters on her legs and arms, where they had been exposed to the fallout from the bomb. He noticed the paleness of the older sister; she looked exhausted, dark rings surrounding her amethyst eyes, making them look even more gem-like. Her normal ultra-smart, professional appearance had been cast aside; her hair was sticking up, and her dress looked blood-stained and creased. However, she seemed oblivious to this, pulling herself up from the sofa in her anxiety to know how he was.

He sat down between them, making them sit as well, and putting his large arms round them companionably.

'Now girls' he said softly, 'your laddie is going to be just fine. Do ye want to see him?' he whispered to Jo, squeezing her arm gently. She nodded. She got up and followed him through the swing doors of the recovery room.

Thérèse stood up. She shook her head in disbelief at the last few days of her life. On the flight home, everything had seemed to be moving forward into a positive and dare she think it, rosy future for them all. Illya had endured indescribable horror, to her mind, and had survived. Napoleon and Jo, after a somewhat rocky start, had got together.

Then, in some horrible inversion of the happiness she had imagined, her beloved Russian had nearly died and now lay unconscious. She had nearly been killed, a man torn to bits like a burst balloon in her lovely garden. And then Napoleon nearly killed as well, because he got between her and the bomb.

She walked out of the theatre and down the corridor, gathering speed as she went, her flip-flops making a clapping noise on the hard floor. Her lips began to murmur words to herself as she automatically headed for the ITU.

_Dear Lord, I place myself in your hands as your servant. Help me to bring some light out of this darkness._

She arrived at the nurses station. Ingrid was just coming out of Illya's room, wheeling a trolley with a washbowl and shaving impedimenta. Her smile disappeared as she took in Thérèse's injuries.

'_Oh mein Gott_!' she cried, rushing towards her. Thérèse shrugged her off, and put her hand on her arm.

'Ingrid, would you do me a big favour?. The German nurse nodded, enthusiastically, as ever. 'Can you give us some privacy? And tell whoever is spying on us, because I know someone is, to turn the other way for a few minutes?' Ingrid smiled conspiratorially. She went towards the nurses station and flicked a switch, saying something in German as the door opened for Thérèse to enter the room.

She stood by the bed watching him breathe. He was lying on his back, his blue eyes hooded, the arm with the cast laid across the sheet, the other, attached to the drip, laid at his side. Therese cringed at all the equipment; she wanted to rip them away, pull the tube out of his nose, yank the IV line away. She stiffened, her face becoming set in determination. She lent forward and untied the gown from behind his neck, gently pulling it away. Luckily, the sleeve on the IV side had not been put on. She stepped back.

Illya had heard the door open and sensed someone was standing there. Confusingly, there was no message in his ear saying who this was. As she leaned over, he knew immediately, and relaxed, only to tense again when he felt the gown being removed. _What is she up to?,_ he thought, forcing his body not to react. He had agreed with Waverly that it could be announced that he had shown signs of regaining consciousness. That might have to be sooner rather than later, if this went on.

Thérèse lifted her t-shirt over her head and dropped it on the floor, followed by her bra. She suddenly felt shy in front of him. As she took off the rest of her clothes, she spoke quietly to him.

'This is your last chance to wake up, Kuryakin. If you don't, then I'll just have to make you, _cheri. _She had strangely chosen to speak to him in French. The sound of it felt romantic to her ears. A language of love. She pulled back the sheet, her heart beating faster like a faint drum inside her chest. Her brow creased as she saw the catheter pinned neatly to the side of the bed, nowhere near where it should be. She unpinned it, and pulled it out of the way. She climbed into the narrow bed, pushing him slightly, and sliding her leg over his, to lie partly on top of him, her arm across his shoulder.

Illya's heart began to speed up, his head aching with the effort of staying still. He could hear her close to him, and the sound of something dropping to the floor. The sensation of the sheet being withdrawn was enough to alert him to what was about to happen. Then the sweet feeling of her next to him, her breasts pressed to his side, her leg sliding over his. He just couldn't help himself, he was screaming at himself not to react and at the same time luxuriating in her; her smoothness, the feeling of her hair brushing his face. His penis couldn't lie still. Nor could he.

As she stroked his hair, she whispered in his ear, her cheeks faintly red.

'Illya, please help me. I don't know what I'm doing, I've . .I've never, I mean I need you to show me how'. Tears came to her eyes as she continued to whisper to him, pouring out her innocence. Illya groaned inwardly. That was it. He couldn't bear to let her go on like this.

Suddenly she stopped. She could feel something, and looked down, her eyes widening. She looked up. He was looking at her, the blue eyes clear and tranquil.

'What exactly would you like me to show you, _ma petite fleur_? He murmured. He turned with difficulty, and touched her hair with his free hand. 'You cut your hair' he said softly; 'it's nice'. She was speechless, her face registering a whole series of emotions. She looked down, her face deeply flushed.

'Oh Illyusha, don't laugh at me, I feel so embarrassed, I . .' He kissed her, rolling her off him and rolling onto her slightly, frustrated by the stupid cast on his arm. He stroked her fringe, suddenly aware of the plaster.

'What happened? Fell over in the garden' he said, smiling. She stared at him.

'Of course, you don't know, you've been out for over a week, well. .' He put his finger on her lips.

'Tess, I have a confession to make, and you need to know now, before we go any further'. He leaned on his elbow so that he could look at her more closely. She looked sensational; her sallow skin, browned now in the summer sun, a stark contrast to the whiteness of the sheets on which she lay looking up at him, her hair framed on the pillow. Her fringe gave her a different sort of look – sexy, he thought. He sighed, trying to concentrate.

'Teresita, I am afraid that we have deceived you as to my medical condition, for a good reason, but nevertheless, you were deceived' he said. She stared at him, saying nothing except 'go on'. He cleared his throat, continuing.

'It was necessary to convince everybody here that I was unconscious, in the hope that whoever is the cuckoo in the nest would make their move'.

'And try to . . . to kill you' she whispered, her lips pursed.

'I am afraid so, yes.' He looked at her, hoping that she would not be too hurt or angry with him. He desperately wanted to hold her. It felt as if they had been performing some sort of ritual dance with each other; getting near, then being pulled away by some other force, only to meet again, then be separated.

He could see she was thinking, her head slightly bent against his chest. She pushed herself up slightly, her face quite close to his, eyes flashing.

'Illya, I want you to promise me something. That you will never, never deceive me again, do you understand?'. He nodded, knowing he was being let off lightly. 'I am able to cope, and I am able to pretend if necessary; in fact, I'm almost as good at acting as you are. Just don't treat me like a little girl, right?'. She ran her hands through the soft stubble of his hair, which stood up on end, making her smile. 'Otherwise', she whispered, 'there will be hell to pay, _mon brave'._

'What sort of hell?' he pulled up the sheets and rolled slightly onto her, kissing her breasts slowly, as he felt her putting her hand round his penis. His eyes closed contentedly. _Not bad for a beginner_ he thought. An almost soundless click froze his mouth onto her breast. Someone had come into the room. And they didn't want to be heard.

He put his hand silently on hers, signalling to her with his eyes as best he could. In that instant, she heard the slight squeak of a shoe on the floor. She put her hand over his eyes to close them, and turned over. She was standing just inside the room, the door closed behind her. There was a slight bulge inside the jacket of her suit which alerted Thérèse to the fact that she might have a weapon of some kind.

'Miss McCaffery, I guess. Slightly kinky, making love to a dead man' she said, the sneer on her face making her voice sound strange and disembodied. Illya, lying behind Thérèse, stiffened. It couldn't be. What was Carole doing here? She had visited him a few days ago, and seemed her usual self; she had droned on at length about office gossip, about Cal, her parents, her new apartment. Sabi had asked him who she was afterwards, and he had told her the story. 'Another lucky escape, darling' she had said. As he heard her come closer, a cold heavy feeling settled in his stomach.

'He's not dead, whoever you are, and you're not coming near him' Thérèse countered, pulling up the sheet around her.

Illya, with a barely concealed sigh, realised that they hadn't met. He had to wait until Carole was near enough for him to have a chance of disabling her, but it was going to be virtually impossible with Tess here, especially in the mood she now seemed to be in. Where on earth were Kat and Sabi? And where was Napoleon? As if reading his mind, Carole had withdrawn something from her jacket.

She came nearer. She was very near Thérèse now. 'Please don't waste my time pretending any more, Illya' she said icily, 'it was quite interesting watching you two out there, once I'd disposed of the nurse'. As Illya began to slowly sit up, she suddenly lunged across the bed, plunging the stick-like instrument first into Thérese's neck, then into Illya's. Together, they sank back onto the bed, their eyes clouded. Illya realised, with mounting horror, that he, and presumably she, were still conscious, still able to breathe, but unable to move. They were totally at her mercy.

She walked slowly round the end of the bed, replacing the instrument in her jacket.

'Yes, it's quite effective, isn't it? We thought you might enjoy watching your execution, Illya; after all, you've had far too many lucky escapes, haven't you? And your Juliet there, she can watch you die too. As far as I'm concerned, it is her fault that Friedrich is now in a thousand pieces in your back garden'.

Illya's mind was whirling, trying to make some sense of what she was saying. Therese had started to tell him, but he couldn't even turn to see if she was alright, never mind ask her to tell him what had gone on, and where Napoleon was. He could feel her next to him though, and it gave him strength, imagining what she would be thinking; and praying. He hoped that she would derive strength from him too, from his closeness. He concentrated, thinking it might be important.

Carole drew out a small box from her jacket and opened it, taking out a syringe. She glanced at Illya as she put the syringe together. Then she laughed.

'You don't know, do you? You don't know what's happened!'. She laid the syringe down on the bed and sat down next to him. 'Everything was going so well, Illya dear. Friedrich was in place, and had been for some time. He was a product of our '_neue lebensborn'_ programme; yes, he was born for this role, and we have others that can replace him'.

_Lebensborn_ – 'font of life'. Illya's mind was cast back to his childhood. The sound of doors being hammered on by soldiers, looking for children; blond children with blue eyes. His mother had hidden him, a six year old little boy, in a space between the walls of their attic. After they had left, she had pulled him out, terrified and crying, from the dark, dirty place where he had lain silently for hours waiting for her. Other children like him had not been so lucky; wrenched away from screaming parents, they had disappeared into the Reich, to be adopted by suitable Nazi parents. As he contemplated what might have been, he suddenly realised who she was talking about. Cal. Cal was the deep sleeper, who had died with his real personality buried. And Carole was the control.

She had come round to his side of the bed, and was stroking his head.

'Nice haircut. About the best you've ever looked, Illya. Shame you couldn't have made more effort when we dated. You never know where it could have led' she sniggered, running her hand down his chin. She leaned over suddenly, and pulled the IV line towards her. 'Well, Miss McCaffery, it's a shame you can't kiss your boyfriend goodbye, isn't it? I'm just going to inject a little air into this line, then 'pop' goes dear Illya's heart. So simple, don't you think? So cheap too. Just right for the likes of you, Illya dear, isn't it?'. As she continued speaking, she began to draw air into the syringe. She plunged the needle into the IV tube and began to press.

'Move away, move right away from the bed, Miss Gilby, if you don't mind'. Kat was standing at the end of the bed, having come out of the bathroom entrance. Carole jerked her head up, her blonde hair glinting in the lights of the room. She gave a slight grimace, dropped the syringe, and put her hands up slightly.

'Oh hello. I think you've left it rather late to rescue him now' she said flatly . Kat came slowly forward, her gun pointing straight at her. As she reached the bed, she could see that Illya and Therese were both there, lying wedged together like two frozen figures. Neither of them made any movement at all. The sight of them unnerved her and she looked away from Carole for a second. She momentarily saw the knife reflected in the ceiling light before she felt it.

The sudden pain was followed by a deep, dark throbbing feeling as her gun fell to the floor and she began to slip downwards after it. She could see her own blood begin to ooze away from the bed, then the light begin to fail. Sabi's face. She held it in her memory as long as she could, until even that began to fade, to flow away like her blood, drifting away along the smooth floor.

Illya prayed that Tess in some way hadn't realised what was happening, but of course there was no escaping that. He wondered whether this was worse than everything that had gone before. To be a helpless witness to the murder of a precious colleague and friend made his stomach churn with cold rage. Carole wiped the blood off the knife with the bed sheet, then replaced it. At that moment, they were all aware of someone else in the room.

Sabi stood in the doorway, her face contorted by rage and grief. Illya felt time slow down just at the same time as feeling began to seep into his body. He was able to move his head enough to see her bring her gun up and fire. He felt Tess's body shake with the noise, then he was aware of Carole's head, the bullet making a large red hole between the eyes, as she dropped down like a puppet suddenly losing its strings. He was able to turn enough to take Tess into his arms, her shuddering body convulsing with a silent, sobbing rhythm.

xxxxxxxx

The clanging of the alarms reverberated in Illya's head for a long time after they had stopped, and Kat's body had been taken away. They were left alone for a while, some clothes being left for them on a chair near the bed. She clung on to him, kissing him all over his face, her eyes taking him in, as if it was for the first time.

'I thought you were dead, I. . I thought she had killed you' she whispered, her hands stroking his hair and ear, pressing herself into him joyfully. He kissed her gently, pulling his arm with the IV splint across the bed.

'Look' he said, 'you remember the catheter that lead nowhere? Well this is the matching IV'. He sat up, unwrapping the bandage that held the IV board onto his arm. The tubing was neatly attached to the IV board, the valve taped to his arm but not inserted. 'We had to keep changing it to avoid a wet patch on the floor' he said, freeing his arm at last from the line. 'It feels good to get at least one of my arms back, but I'm afraid you're going to have to help me get dressed, now that you took even the last vestige of my clothing from me. And then you can tell me what happened in the garden'.

xxxxxxxx

They tried to make him use a wheelchair, but he fixed Helga with such a stare that she thought better of it and moved out of the way for him.

'I need to walk. I feel as if I've been lying down half my life' he said, glaring fiercely at her. Therese walked over to him and grabbed his arm, as he stood unsteadily by the chair.

'You will apologise to Helga straight away, otherwise you'll need to visit Napoleon on a trolley' she told him, pulling him forwards towards the nurses station. 'She and Ingrid have looked after you well, so be grateful'.

He glanced sideways at her. Someone had replaced her clothes, wrecked by the spattering of blood, with a regulation UNCLE blouse and pencil skirt, and a pair of high heels, astonishingly in her size. She looked extremely alluring in them, although he wouldn't have dared say so. He had been given a suit from somewhere, again in the right size, although he had lost weight, with all the stupid tube-feeding he had had to endure. He walked carefully up to Ingrid, kissed her on the cheek, and thanked her for caring for him. She returned the compliment with a large bear-hug that left him heaving for breath, but smiling.

Napoleon was sitting up in bed being fed by Jo when they arrived. She had obviously been home and changed, for she was wearing some Capri pants and a little sleeveless blouse, and looked her usual smart self. Despite having extensive bandaging, in particular to his leg, they were managing to make the act of being fed look downright sexual, so Illya thought.

'What are you doing here?' Napoleon mumbled through mouthfuls of food, 'Have they replaced you with a waxwork dummy?'. Illya realised that he had no idea what had happened, and wondered what on earth he had thought was going on when the klaxons sounded. Or perhaps he had just been out for the count then. He looked at Tess, who was pulling a chair next to the bed so that he could sit down. Very perceptively, she fixed Jo with a meaningful gaze, and she put down the plate and followed her out of the room.

Napoleon looked faintly disappointed that his dinner had been disturbed, then became aware of Illya's expression. Before he could say anything, Illya stood up, and leaning across the bed, kissed him on his forehead, then sat down. There was a quietness in the room; not awkward; they both remained silent for a while, before Illya spoke.

I've only just heard what happened. I asked you to protect her, and you did, but I'm sorry that it nearly cost you your life, Napoleon. I can't express . ..'

'It's OK. You just better hone your DIY skills a little bit – I'm afraid our friends in THRUSH just don't have any appreciation for garden upkeep' he replied, smiling at Illya's earnest face. _God, he looks so young, like a little boy_' he thought. _'Must be the hair'_.

'Napoleon' Illya continued, 'I'm sitting here because it's over – the 'plot' has been discovered as it were, and they are _both_ dead'. Napoleon lay back slightly on the pillows and turned towards him.

'Cal was the sleeper, although I think you've worked that out, probably'. Napoleon nodded. 'After you were brought in here, Tess decided to take things into her own hands, as it were, and came up to the unit. Apparently she told Ingrid to make sure we were not disturbed. I think Ingrid must have spoken to Kat on the system, which meant that there was no surveillance of the room for the next half hour or so'.

'Don't tell me, someone came in while Tess was, . . . just what was Tess doing, comrade?' Napoleon said, a slow smile gradually easing across his features. Illya pursed his lips. 'That is an entirely personal matter between my fiancée and myself, but suffice it to say, we were attacked by some sort of paralysing agent; no doubt the product of Dr Fetting's laboratory, I would guess'.

'And who was doing the attacking?' Napoleon enquired, not having the faintest idea who it could be.

'Carole. Carole Gilby; our Personal Assistant, Napoleon'.

Napoleon's jaw dropped slightly. That was clever. The combination of a Section 2 agent and someone entirely unlikely: dull, pain-in-the-ass Carole. That really took the biscuit.

'So what did she do, try and organise you to death?' Napoleon said, grimacing at the thought. He noticed that Illya was not even faintly smiling. Something bad had happened.

'She tried to inject air into the IV tube. Unfortunately, Kat must have realised, even though the sound was off, that something was wrong. She thought Carole had succeeded, and it broke her concentration. She killed her, Napoleon. Kat is dead'.

There was another, more uncomfortable silence in the room.

'And where is she now? In custody?' He tried not to think of what he might say or do to her. It would just be a pointless display of revenge and venting of his feelings.

'No, she's dead. Sabi shot her'.

xxxxxxxxxx

Sabi was sitting at the back of the little chapel attached to the mortuary. She was thinking of the other mortuary they had stood in, not that long ago, in another place far away. It felt like another world now. The endless repetition of the words 'duty' and 'expendable' seemed irrelevant to her now, meaningless in the face of this loss. They would not help her to make sense of it or to come to terms with her future without Kat. Now, after all they had gone though, death had come when they least suspected it. It seemed a sadly pathetic end.

She heard the door open and shut again, and then he was sitting next to her, his blue eyes full of pain for her pain. She put her head on his shoulder, and they sat for a while in this way, not bothering to speak because it didn't seem necessary. Later, she squeezed his arm, and murmured,

'Don't blame yourself Illyusha, will you? I know you would have prevented it if you could. She died doing what she loved'. He sighed.

Thank you Sabi, and I know. But the old clichés about this service don't really help at this time, do they? Do you know what I fear the most now?' She looked at him, waiting for the answer. 'That if anything happens to me, I will leave behind someone who will have to go through what you are going through. Perhaps it's right that we shouldn't form loving attachments'. She pulled away from him, and got hold of his head between her hands.

'No, Illya, you are wrong, darling. However much I miss Kat now, and I do miss her, I would never regret loving her, having that experience. You know that, now that you love someone, and are loved so much by her. Now you must go out there and make your new family, because you will be a better agent, a better person for loving her. And that is what Kat wanted, so you will honour her memory by your love'.

xxxxxxxxx

Despite loud and vociferous protests, glares and just 'dumb insolence' as Thérèse called it, Dr McDonald insisted that Illya remain in the medical department for a further week. However, as a compromise gesture, he allowed the two agents to share a room; or, as Jo said, 'putting two pains in the bum in the same room – what a relief for everyone else!'.

On the day before Illya's discharge, the de-briefing meeting was confirmed by Waverly's secretary for that afternoon. Dr McDonald had examined him thoroughly in the morning, prodding the scars on his head through his rapidly growing hair.

After he had finished, Illya remained sitting

.

'Is there something else?' McDonald added, looking rather fondly at him. Illya looked steadily back at him, his brow furrowing as he contemplated what to say next.

'Dr McDonald, I just felt I should thank you for caring for my mother, and,' he added, rather bashfully, 'for me of course, although I still don't understand about those tablets you gave me'. Peter McDonald gave a wry grin, putting his hand on Illya's shoulder.

'Nay laddie' he replied, 'I should thank you. Marina has transformed my life. As you know, after my dear wife died, I had decided to retire, but your dear mama has changed all that, that's a fact'. Illya stared at him, his eyes wide. He needed to speak to his mother; soon.

'As far as those tablets go' he continued, 'David Miller will explain to you about the drugs which affected you so badly. The tablets I gave you were to make sure we knew where you were. They're a new development. I knew you would finish the course, which was as well, because they would have found a device if we had fitted you with one, and we really needed to know where you were, my lad; how else could we know where to send that lovely girl of yours to take some snaps of you?'.

Illya was sure Tess wouldn't be pleased to hear her photographs called 'snaps', but he was still trying to process the information McDonald had just told him. So, it wasn't just coincidence that she had found him there. Waverly knew where he was all along. But this was nothing compared to the news that his own mother appeared to be having a relationship with this Scotsman in front of him. He shook his head at the thought of it, making it ache.

McDonald was watching him.

'Don't worry about your ma and I' he said. 'You are not fully fit, young man, and you need at least a month before you can return to work. You need to go home and rest. No laboratory, no paperwork, and no strong physical exercise, if you understand my meaning, eh?' Illya's reaction was not what he was expecting. He got up, smiling.

'Yes, I was hoping you might say that. When can I go home?' he replied.

xxxxxxx

Napoleon allowed Illya to push him in a wheelchair to the meeting, turning round to stare at his abnormally cheerful colleague, as he spun him along the corridors, singing some strange Russian folk song under his breath as they bowled along.

Waverly was sitting in his usual place behind the round table when they entered the room, flanked by Peter McDonald and David Miller to right and left. Vaz Fernandez sat near the window, talking to Sabi. She turned towards them as they came in, a tired smile coming to her lips. Waverly motioned to them to join the others, his hand reaching automatically for his pipe.

'Now that we'll all here, let's get on with it' he said, rather gruffly. 'It appears that there are rather a lot of loose ends that need to be tied before we can in any way say that this affair is finished'. They sifted through the various reports from departments, analysing the possible impact of the two THRUSH agents upon UNCLE security. The general conclusion regarding Cal was that, since he had still not been 'activated', there was little or no security breach there. It was obvious that the plans concerning him were very long-term indeed.

'It would appear that their goal was to replace Mr Kuryakin with Mr Hanssen, and then, at a decent interval, to remove Mr Solo also, in some 'accident', Waverly said. 'After that, the ultimate goal was that he would take my place in due course. A chilling prospect I may say' Waverly added. 'We are also reasonably confident that Miss Gilby was not party to any major information that would be useful to THRUSH, although we need to maintain vigilance for some time. Of course, if this had been allowed to continue, there is no doubt she would have been waiting in the wings, as it were, to assist Mr Hannsen when the time was right'.

'Neither Illya or I had any idea it was her, Sir,' Napoleon interjected, looking at the Russian, who was staring at Peter McDonald in what Napoleon thought was rather a hostile way.

'That was the diabolical beauty of their plan, Mr Solo; Miss Gilby played a very clever game, appearing to be rather less accomplished than she really was' Waverly said, knocking his pipe on the ashtray nearby.

Illya leaned back in his chair, putting the file on the table with an emphatic thud. 'She said something rather worrying when she was going about the business of killing me' he said calmly, looking at Waverly. All eyes were immediately turned in his direction, Waverly's brow becoming increasingly lined. Illya continued. 'When she told me about Cal, she said that there were others where he came from'.

Waverly leaned forward meeting Illya's gaze. 'What do you think she meant, Mr Kuryakin?, he said.

'She mentioned the '_neue lebensborn', _Sir. If I'm not mistaken, that could mean that THRUSH are developing some sort of master race based on the old Nazi programme. Cal would certainly fit the racial stereotype, and I think I know just the doctor who might be involved' he added, heaving a large sigh.

'Just so, Mr Kuryakin, just so. Well, we cannot do anything about that until we receive further information. Perhaps Mr Fernandez, you would like to see if there are any reports of strange new colonies anywhere', Waverly said, turning to Vaz.

'Right Ho, sir. I'll get on to it straight away'. He leapt up with his customary energy and went towards the door, turning to look at Illya as he went. 'Glad you made it, old boy. I'm sure you'll soon be just tickety-boo' he added, as he almost ran from the room. Napoleon leaned across to Illya,

'Tickety-boo?'

'English Public School speak for just fine, ' Illya whispered. 'Originates from a hindi word, adapted by the British in India'.

'And I thought scouse was a foreign language' muttered Solo.

Illya turned back to the table as Sabi spoke

.

'Excuse me for asking, Mr Waverly, but how does what happened to Ill- I mean, Mr Kuryakin, connect with this plot? I can see that they were both given that horrible drug to disguise who they were, but when Ill- Mr Kuryakin arrived in Berlin he was very ill, and then they went to a lot of trouble to send him to the Ukraine. Why didn't they just kill you in Berlin, darling, er, I mean . . .'.

'Perhaps I can explain, at least about the first part of your question' David Miller interposed. He looked at Illya, his expression very different to the usual vicious look that he seemed to reserve for the Russian.

First' he said, leaning back in his chair in a very un-Miller like pose, 'my name is not actually David Miller. Allow me to introduce myself'. Herr David Mueller, West German Intelligence. Mr Waverly allowed me to work with UNCLE because we have a joint interest in one Herr Phineas Schleicher. It soon became apparent that Schleicher was working closely with Dr Fetting and also Dr Winnifred Engel, two people with very perturbing reputations.

Mueller continued, 'Alexander and I decided that we could not risk anyone else in UNCLE knowing my true identify, even his most trusted agents, especially if, as we suspected, there was a potentially catastrophic plot being hatched. We soon realised that there was a connection between Fetting and whatever THRUSH was planning, but we had to find out for sure.

He got up from his seat, and walked to the window, staring out at the East River glinting in the afternoon sun. 'I have been working on this case for a long time. In Germany, I made initial contact with Schleicher, posing as a renegade UNCLE agent, who was being moved to New York to an important new position close to Alexander Waverly. He couldn't resist, and I maintained his interest by feeding him bits of apparently interesting, but mainly worthless information. He then told me two very important things.

The first one was that Fetting was developing a new drug-based treatment that would enable the 'deep-sleeper' programme, which was already in place, to be perfected by a drug which had to be administered far less often than the original, and therefore drew less attention to its user. Secondly, that Mr Kuryakin here, could be eliminated, but not before he was used to trial the new 'improved' formula. You see', he added, turning back from the window, 'they needed to remove Illya so that Cal could take his place, but Fetting also had his own unpleasant agenda, based on his pathetic need for revenge. He made a deal with Schleicher – the drug, in return for Kuryakin, to do with as he pleased'.

Illya's face was set into its usual blank expression, Napoleon thought, when he was 'processing' information at these sort of meetings. He wondered how he did this normally, but he was staggered by it now. He was obviously thinking it through before he said what Napoleon would have been shouting about by now.

'So you gave me the drug which caused me to lose weight, and think I might be diabetic, and have to leave my job . . . for what reason?' he said icily. The tension in the room increased sharply, Sabi also staring furiously at Mueller in a sort of strange supportive gesture towards Illya.

Mueller sighed. 'Yes, that was a particularly nasty thing to have to do to you, and I will quite understand if you find it unforgivable' he said. 'The truth is, that it was an act of pure vindictiveness on Fetting's part. He insisted that Schleicher arrange for you, Illya, to be, what do they call it 'softened up', and I think Schleicher also wanted to see if I would do it. We reluctantly decided to go ahead, although I have to say Dr McDonald was very unhappy about it. You remember the injection he gave you?'. Illya nodded. He remembered every injection doctors gave him. 'That was to mitigate the effects of that vile stuff. Without it, you would have been far worse' he concluded.

Waverly spoke. 'I understand Dr McDonald has explained to you, Mr Kuryakin, that we also gave you a new drug of our making, to ensure that we knew where you were, and that eventually, a rescue attempt could be made'.

_'But you waited until he was shipped back home and you saw what Fetting was up to, didn't you?'_ thought Napoleon. He was astonished at how Kuryakin could sit there, apparently accepting his role in all this. God, it was a wonder he was still sane. He knew Illya was waiting to speak, thinking it through.

'So, the THRUSH plot has been at least temporarily stopped, but', Illya added tersely, 'there are rather a lot of the main 'dramatis personae' still free, aren't there, and, I presume, still on the THRUSH payroll'.

'Quite so, Mr Kuryakin' Waverly said, rather awkwardly. 'To our embarrassment, it appears that Herr Schleicher and Doktors Fetting and Engel are at large, and it seems that Dr Engel now has an assistant that you are acquainted with, Mr Kuryakin'. Illya looked puzzled, looking at Sabi, whose face suddenly changed, her eyebrows raised.

'Oh no darling! It's that frightful frump you got yourself entangled with!' Illya groaned. So, Elena had joined forces with THRUSH. It figured.

Mueller spoke again. 'I have recently received intelligence from my colleagues in Germany that Herr Schleicher, Dr Engel, and, I presume, her new assistant, have returned to East Berlin. The feeling is that they are not going to be there for long, but are moving somewhere else'.

'_Lebensborn_' muttered Illya to Napoleon. 'So,' Mueller continued, 'I will be returning to Germany, and will liaise with Mr Fernandez when I receive further intelligence'. He stood up, looking across at Illya. 'Mr Kuryakin, I am very sorry indeed that you had to endure such rudeness and terrible treatment from me for so long. I am actually very fond of Russians, and, for what it's worth, I like your beatnik style, although your new haircut is an improvement, I think' he added, smiling broadly. The temperature of the room suddenly went down a few degrees, Napoleon thought, amusedly.

Mueller got up to go, shaking the hands of the UNCLE agents companionably. It was still hard to quite feel relaxed in his presence, Napoleon reflected. He turned as he was leaving,

'Will I have the pleasure of your company on the flight home, Sabi?' he asked. Everyone seemed to have forgotten about Sabi's situation, in the long meeting. Waverly interrupted.

'Er, Miss Klose has agreed to consider joining us in New York, David. I am rather hoping that she will be able to partner Mr Fernandez in the near future'. For the first time that afternoon, Illya smiled. _Vaz would be good for her_, he thought.

'But I have to go home first, darling' she said quietly; I have things to do'.

As soon as Mueller had left, Illya was on his feet.

'Is there anything else, or can I go? Dr McDonald has signed me off for four weeks, Sir, and I would like to go home now'. Waverly looked up from the files he was perusing.

'Oh, yes. Of course, Mr Kuryakin. No doubt you will be coming back for the weekly medical checks Dr McDonald has noted here on your medical record. Before you leave the building, could you just remember to let my secretary know the date of your wedding, if you have one'. Illya stood there. _He's processing again_, Napoleon thought.

'I . . I think it's about six weeks time, Sir' he said, rather hesitantly. 'I . .I'm not really up on the arrangements'.

'Yes, that will be fine, Mr Kuryakin; that will give you and Mr Solo time to complete another mission before that'.

Napoleon shook his head in disbelief.

xxxxxxxxxx

Thérèse had parked the little beetle outside Del Floria's. She didn't use the car very much, and she was lucky to have the use of her neighbour's garage at the back of their street, where he lovingly repaired and restored it for her. Jo had assured her that he was only doing it because he had a thing about her, but she didn't think so. Illya hadn't seen the car, but she hoped he would like it. She had the soft top down, and Matt, the neighbour, had recently painted some yellow daisies on its pale blue paintwork. It was certainly unmistakeable, she thought.

She jumped out of the car and entered the little shop, smiling at Del Floria as she walked towards the changing room. In the reception area, she sat down, facing the desk with all those badges on it. It was unusually quiet, and Connie had time to talk.

'Do you want me to buzz up to tell them you're here?' she said, smiling at Thérèse. She shook her head.

'No, he'll come when he's ready'. She could see Connie wanted to ask her something. She looked up, encouragingly inviting her to speak.

'Can I ask you something?' Connie said, coming round from the desk to sit next to Therese, 'Do you find him hard to understand? You know, some of us girls have been out with him, and we find him kinda, you know . . . reserved', she said. Thérèse wanted to laugh. He had probably given them a hard time, she thought. She must tease him about it later.

'Um, well, you just have to press the right buttons, I suppose' she said, trying to sound as if she knew what she was talking about; 'I'll give you a demonstration in a minute'. Connie's eyebrows shot up.

As if on cue, he came up behind them. 'Connie' he said, in his usual way. Connie jumped up and ran behind the desk, looking fixedly at Thérèse and smiling. Illya looked furtively between them. Something was going on, but he couldn't quite . . . Thérèse got up slowly, and signalled to him with her finger. He put down his case and jacket, walked up to her and started to kiss her very slowly and passionately, his good arm supporting her. _Clever Russian, _she thought, _quick to catch on._

CHAPTER 16

June

'We're going home in that?' Illya looked behind him, to check there was no-one looking.

'Don't say that! Ringo will be upset!' Thérèse replied, going round to get in the driver's side, and waiting for him to get in.

'Ringo?'

'Come on, genius, work it out. It's a beetle. He's a Beatle. Get it? He shook his head, sat back in the seat and contemplated her as she drove confidently through the city, the car whizzing along towards downtown. After a while, Illya closed his eyes, suddenly feeling tired and vaguely unsettled by the meeting; although the immediate danger to UNCLE had been averted, and the old feeling of not having resolved the problem of Fetting began to surface in his mind. Where was he now? And, more important, what was he doing?

He was jerked out of his thoughts by the car stopping. They were outside the house. He looked up at the windows of his apartment, thinking of its rooms, and of the rather sparse furnishings in them. It suddenly occurred to him that he didn't know what was going to happen next. Where was he going? Upstairs? Downstairs? He hadn't even thought about it. Thérèse turned towards him.

'Joey wants to talk to you when we get in'.

'What have I done wrong now?' he asked. She smiled, her eyes taking him in.

'Illya' she said hesitantly, 'I've made a few little alterations, well, with the help of the insurance department at UNCLE, which I hope you'll understand in the light of what Joey wants to tell you'.

'Alterations?' he said, as they got out of the car, 'what, to the garden?'

'Well yes, but not just the garden' she replied. They stood at the bottom of the stairs to the front door. He could see she was agitated, and he thought he knew why.

He grasped her hand and pulled her up the stairs behind him. When they got to the top, he swung round, catching her round the waist.

'Whatever you've done is fine' he murmured, 'in fact I'm looking forward to it'. She looked at him quizzically, her head to the side, as she opened the door.

The corridor at the side of the stairs had gone, making a lovely entrance hall, with the doors to the rooms exposed at the side. She walked down the hall, and opened the door to the room at the back of the house. Illya could see that the windows had been re-glazed, and some remedial work had been done to the frames. It was in the garden that the effects of the bomb were devastatingly apparent. The old brick wall with the climbing rose on it had been completely demolished, revealing another piece of land behind. Somebody had been busy clearing the debris, but the little garden, now grown larger, looked sad and torn apart.

Thérèse stood, looking out at it all. He put his arm round her shoulder.

'Perhaps, when I've had a little rest, I could help you sort it out' he said. 'However, I am afraid I don't have much horticultural expertise'.

'You mean you haven't got a clue about gardening' she said. 'Well, that's something I can teach you, _Cheri_'. They moved closer together, Illya pushing her hair away from her face, as he ran his finger across her cheek and down her jaw. It was hard to imagine anyone more beautiful than she was at that moment, he thought, her hair catching the light of the late afternoon sun, as she stood with the garden like a battleground behind her.

They were interrupted by Jo coming into the room, with a file of papers in her hand. She had reverted to her usual elegant attire, this time a beautiful tailored dress. She sat down and took out a few papers from the file, plus a fountain pen, and looked up, smiling at them both.

'Oh for goodness sake sit down, you two. You make the place look untidy' she started. They both immediately sat down. 'Don't look so worried' she began, looking at Illya. 'I just need your signature on this conveyance, and then you need a lie down, by the look of you'. Illya put on his glasses and looked at the document.

'If I understand this correctly', he said quietly, 'you are giving your share of the house to us, so that Tess and I will own the whole lot. And it appears we own the extra part of the garden too'.

'Very good, Illya, I'm impressed. Now just sign and welcome to the rest of your life with my family. And may God have mercy on your soul'.

Thérèse noticed how tired he looked; he had finished his tea, and was lying back on the old sofa, half-asleep. She took his hand and gently whispered into his ear, easing him up at the same time. He obediently followed her into the front room.

'I've moved some of your things in here; I hope you don't mind' she said, as she started to help him off with his clothes. The walls were painted a beautiful shade of pale terracotta, which gave it a Mediterranean feeling. She had hung up some abstract fabric collages, the work of a Mallorcan artist, which contrasted with the more traditional pieces of furniture in the room. On one wall there was a large glass-fronted piece of furniture which reminded Illya of an old-fashioned shop fitting.

'I got it from a shop that was closing' she said. 'Its fab, isn't it? Look, you can put all your clothes and underwear in the drawers – not that you've got a lot to put in there, judging by what I found upstairs'.

'Is this where you say I need taking in hand?' he said tiredly, looking at her through closing eyelids. She continued to take off his clothes, laying them neatly on the tiny sofa that stood in front of the windows. She turned back the sheets and gently pushed him back onto the pillows. The bed felt incredibly comfortable, the sheets soft and clean. He fought to keep awake, but it was too hard, and in minutes he was fast asleep.

She kissed him gently, covering him carefully with the sheet. She sat there for a long time, just looking at him, as the sun set. Then she went out of the room.

xxxxxxxxx

After three weeks, it was getting to him. It was a dreadful combination – not enough of Tess, and too much of everybody else. After another day of finding himself alone in the bed in the morning, he cornered her in the kitchen.

'Therese, is there a problem?' he asked, as she stood at the kitchen unit, checking through one of many seemingly endless lists that seemed to be everywhere in the house now. She looked down, blushing deeply.

'I haven't got time to discuss anything now' she said, pushing past him, leaving him standing there alone.

Then there was Napoleon, exacting the price of his heroism. At first, he directed operations from his bedside. After the weekly visit to Dr McDonald, Illya had called in to see him, finding him also composing a long list in his spidery handwriting. Illya picked it up.

'Oh what is this?' he said coldly, looking at the paper, and then throwing it down on the bed. Napoleon looked closely at him, narrowing his eyes.

'Something wrong? Wedding plans getting to you, or, is it something else?'

'Nothing is wrong. I just don't see the need for all these, these _things_ Napoleon. I am only getting married, not running for President'.

'Now, now, calm down comrade. Besides, you owe me one, remember?'

Later, when Napoleon was fully mobile, it was worse. They waited until the day Illya had his cast removed, and then it began. A never-ending shopping trip, or so it seemed, with Illya forced to endure being measured, undressing, dressing, and being talked about by Napoleon and Jo, who didn't seem to think he needed to be consulted about anything or referred to in their endless tedious conversations about suits, shoes and ties. His patience finally came to an end.

They had assured him that this would be their final visit. As they walked down the street, Illya vaguely knew he had been this way before. Then he realised.

'No, Napoleon, I am not letting anyone touch my hair. I don't care what it looks like. I am going home now'. He walked off hurriedly, leaving them standing outside the barber's shop. He could hear Napoleon calling him, but he really didn't care.

He walked back to the house, and then decided to carry on walking. He couldn't bear to see another list, to hear all those women in their house talking about dresses and cakes and other details that he couldn't possibly see as remotely interesting. Even his mother was involved now, explaining to the others all about Ukrainian marriage traditions. He needed to get away.

He found the house quite easily, after consulting the church notice board. It was a brownstone with a fire escape zigzagging up it like a metal snake. He rang the bell, and was shown in by another friar, to a small sitting room at the front. He sat down on the lumpy sofa, holding on with his arms to stop himself sinking in. Gabriel stood in the doorway, looking at him.

'It's really uncomfortable, so let's go out the back, shall we?'

They walked through the house to a small walled garden in the back. Illya thought of their garden. He felt distanced from her, from what he had imagined that their life was going to be like. He frowned.

There were some benches round the edge, in the shade of a tree. They sat down there. Gabriel looked at Illya, noting the tenseness in the Russian's body, the tired, tight face. He waited for him to speak.

'Father, I . .'

'Illya, call me Gabriel, or Gabi; after all, you're nearly family'.

'That's the trouble, Gabi. I'm not sure I want to be'.

Gabriel leant back on the wall. Illya was struck again by the resemblance to his sister, and it made him feel miserable at the thought.

'Are you not coping with the preparations, or, do you doubt your love for her?' he said.

'I'm not coping with the preparations, and I doubt her love for me', he replied gloomily, looking back at Gabriel. He smiled a little, and leaned forward.

'Illya, you two could come to church and I would marry you next week. You have the banns posted, and I guess you've done the other civil things'.

'That sounds tempting' Illya replied.

'And that would be perfectly fine. But perhaps you need to think that marriage is also a family celebration. If you go ahead with this, you will be marrying into a large and colourful family of which you have only met a few of the more restrained members. This will be our way of welcoming you into our lives, you and your mother. The preparations are enough to try the patience of a saint, but when you make those vows, you will make them before God with your friends and family as your witnesses. Besides, you will then have the reception to look forward to. Ever been to an Irish Ceilidh before?'

'Um, not recently'. Illya smiled for the first time in a few days. Talking to Gabi was helpful. Usually Napoleon was good at sorting him out when he was in this sort of mood, but Napoleon was too involved in the preparations to help him now.

'And as for the other, it's probably stage fright, if you know what I mean. I think you know what to do, and you don't need me to tell you, either, do you?'

xxxxxxxxxx

He walked back to the house with a lighter, more determined step, taking the stairs up to the door two at a time. He let himself in and heard the usual female voices in the back room. He hesitated, and then went in. They were all there; Jo, his mother, Mrs Waverly even, and Tess in the middle of them, silent while they talked across her. He signalled to her, and she got up immediately, walking out of the room with him.

He led her upstairs. The kitchen had been removed to make another bedroom, and Therese had been decorating one of the rooms. It was lovely, he thought. He held her firmly by the hand and took her into the room, shutting the door behind them.

'Illya, they'll wonder where we are' she was saying, looking towards the door, then looking back at him nervously.

'Thérèse' he said quietly.

She stood in front of him silently, waiting for him. He kissed her, then turned and started unbuttoning the little blouse she was wearing. Without taking her eyes off him, she started to remove his clothes, gently dropping them to the floor behind her. They pulled back the sheets and lay momentarily together in silence. Illya suddenly remembered and understood the problem. The last time they lay like this, it was in the ITU as Carole attempted to kill him, and while she murdered Kat. He turned over towards her, whispering in her ear,

'Now, let it go, and then I can help you, like you asked'.

She turned over and hugged him, kissing him on the mouth, so deeply he could feel his body responding to her immediately. He very gently took her hand and guided it towards his penis, groaning as she seemed to naturally know how and where to touch him for maximum effect. She slid on top of him, and began to kiss him all over, her breasts rubbing his chest. He held her and rolled her onto her back, gently kissing her between her breasts and sucking her nipples. He felt her cry slightly when he entered her, then, relax and move with him in a kind of rhythmic ecstasy which became stronger and wilder with every thrust of their bodies. His body would not allow him to continue any longer and with a sublime groan he reached a climax, collapsed on her and lay there, deliriously happy.

Eventually, they rolled over to face each other. She ran her hand through his hair, making it wilder and more unkempt than ever, while he lay limply in her arms, his eyes closed. He had a vague sensation of time passing, distant noises, but all of them not being important.

Eventually, with reluctance he heaved himself up, leaning on his arm to look at her. She stretched, a soft tabby cat stretch, her curving eyes almond shaped on her sleeping face. He pushed back the heavy hair from her forehead, and kissed her.

'Teresita,_ corazon_, I have something to tell you'. She looked up slowly, a lazy smile on her face fading to a more serious expression.

'Before the wedding, you're going away' she said simply.

xxxxxxxx

The sun cast a discreet apricot glow across the sky, giving the villa a warm flush that extended into every evening. The constant but gentle roar of the ocean below the terrace only served to underline the exquisite beauty of the place. The house combined both living and working quarters, the laboratory on the side away from the sea, at the end of the long drive leading to the road, and the living area, with its terrace of cypresses and oleanders, facing the vast blue ocean.

Dr Gerhard Fetting lay back in the wicker chair, one hand holding the drink that his servant Rodolfo had presented him with a short while ago, the other loosely holding a piece of paper with a teleprinted message across it.

He closed his eyes. Images of Kuryakin insinuated themselves into his memory, each picture like a strange illustration in the story of Fetting's life. The young student; serious and earnest, who became suspicious as they worked together. Then the Russian taking the role of saviour and judge; Fetting could remember the look of confusion on Kuryakin's face as he stood there in the hospital ward, like an avenging angel with his wild blond hair and blue eyes.

Later, in East Germany, when the roles were different and Kuryakin was finally in his hands, his calm face undergoing what should have been an agonising treatment; once again the man had denied him the pleasure of seeing him suffer. And then, when he had been sure of victory, the Russian standing there in front of him, his past shorn off him like his hair; yet still there was no satisfaction.

Finally, when he was assured that the Russian vermin lay with the other rats, dead underground, finally when he was convinced he was free of him; it was still not to be. He looked at the message again. Kuryakin was alive.

Fetting knew then that it would just be a matter of time. Perhaps it was meant to be that here, in this paradise, there should be one last meeting, one last image of the man, before he would be squashed like one of the cockroaches who vainly attempted to enter the villa, before Rodolfo smashed them under his foot, or allowed their pet boa constrictor to consume them. He slammed the glass down on the table, crumpling the message slowly, and strode back inside.

xxxxxxxx

The temperature in Santiago seemed very similar to New York in August, Napoleon thought, as they stepped off the aircraft and slowly walked across the tarmac to the distant airport buildings. Illya had been increasingly silent during the flight, sleeping for a considerable time, his head close to Sabi's; _two blond heads together_, thought Napoleon.

Sabi had returned from Germany a few days ago in a sombre mood. Napoleon wondered whether Vaz was the right choice as a partner, but he had shown great sensitivity to her situation, coupled with his usual old-fashioned charm, and this had helped to make the adjustment. Still, he could appreciate the suffering that both Illya and Sabi had undergone in the last few months, and understood the silence.

Vaz, on the other hand, kept up a pretty incessant banter through the flight, which in some ways Napoleon was glad of. The night before they left, he had lain in bed with Jo, after a particularly fine bout of lovemaking, so he felt. She had looked at him almost as if she was appraising his performance, but this was not on her mind.

'Listen, Napoleon. Bring him back untouched by human hand, understand, otherwise there will be serious hell to pay. OK?'

'I can't promise that, Joey' he replied. She had sniffed, and then smiled.

'Yes, kid, he's an awkward bugger, isn't he? Stubborn, or what?'

'He surely is, my little liver bird'.

'Where d'you learn that then?'

'Your sister, of course. She told me another phrase they use about you, my sharp tongued one' he said, a serious smirk erupting across his face.

'Oh yes, what's that then, when it's at home' she asked, her chin stuck out as if she was going to challenge him to a few rounds in the ring. He took a deep breath.

'Well, she said Gabi said you had a 'gob like a bee's bum' '. There was silence, and then she wrinkled her mouth up

.

'Well, you'd better watch yourself then, soft lad' she whispered.

He had decided at that moment that he would ask her to marry him, but actually asking her, finding the right moment, seemed well nigh impossible now that this latest mission was about to begin. He had left her early the next morning with a sense of things being unfinished between them.

As Vaz prattled on about missions and bandits at eight o'clock, _Geez, that man was like listening to a British World War II film _he thought, his mind floated back to her. He had become so involved in Illya's wedding that he had not thought to wonder whether Jo was not expecting him to follow suite. Somehow though, he couldn't quite imagine them in quite the same setting, with quite the same fuss. At any rate, he needed to concentrate on what was ahead, so that they all had a future to look forward to.

xxxxxxxxxx

The villa was located in the picturesque port of Valparaiso, not a huge drive from Santiago, and they were soon through the airport and in the car provided by the UNCLE Chilean office. Vaz was driving with his new partner sitting next to him, while Napoleon and Illya took the back seats. Illya sat staring through the side window during the journey. Solo looked at him, and noticed that for once, his clothes looked reasonably smart; a polo shirt and chinos with a thin jacket had seemingly replaced the ubiquitous black, creased look that he usually sported. Napoleon tried hard not to look as if he was staring, but the Russian had noticed.

'Something amiss?' he murmured, eyes swivelling towards his colleague.

'No. Just admiring the new look'. As if he knew what Napoleon was thinking, Illya ran his hand, Kuryakin fashion, through his chaotic hair.

'We went shopping' he said simply. 'She refuses to buy clothes for me, says she'll do that for our children, not for an adult, apparently'.

'_Not before time'_ Napoleon thought.

The house they were staying in was by a small marina, which was awash with the sails of yachts and small sailing boats, flapping against the blue of a Mediterranean sky. Houses, in a melange of bright colours, climbed the steep hills, contributing to the holiday atmosphere of the place. Along the coast, they could see clearly the white palatial buildings of the casino at Viña del Mar.

After unpacking, they sat down at the table in the kitchen to plan. Illya's face was serious, set into a frozen mask of concentration on the task ahead. The others exchanged glances, sensing the importance of it all for him. When he got up to use the bathroom, they huddled together, speaking hurriedly in whispers before he returned.

'We do not want any heroics here, least of all from him' Napoleon murmured urgently. 'The object of the exercise is to take out the laboratory, retrieve any worthwhile documents that may be at hand, and finally to make sure that Dr Fetting receives the justice that he is due, preferably in a court of law'.

'I somehow think, dear boy, that this is not exactly what Illya has in mind' Vaz replied, his dark features shrouded by the dim light afforded by the blinds on the windows.

'Yes, well he has someone at home who is depending on us to bring him back in one piece with mind and body intact, and I have someone at home who will make my life hell if anything happens apart from a suntan' he said gloomily. Sabi laughed at his expression; the first time he had seen her look even reasonably relaxed since Kat's death.

'I am sure you can look after Blondie, Vaz darling, while Napoleon and I waylay that _monster_ at the Casino' Sabi replied. She said the word _monster_ with such feeling that Napoleon couldn't help but grin at her.

'Don't refer to Napoleon in that way, Sabi', Illya remarked, surprising them at his almost silent return into the room. He seemed to be in a better mood, his features more relaxed than before. '_He's been talking to her_' Napoleon guessed.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The intelligence from the Santiago office had been helpful, but not complete. The villa at Valparaiso was set back from the road at the top of cliffs, with a long, winding drive leading up to it. They knew that the laboratory was on the road side of the house, with the living quarters facing the sea, but no-one had been able to obtain a detailed plan. As far as personnel were concerned, there were laboratory staff there of course, and some security guards, although it appeared that THRUSH did not deem the house worthy of a high security presence.

'Apparently, he has an interesting manservant, Rodolfo by name, who combines a kind of Jeeves role with his 'huasos' activities' Vaz added, rolling his eyes.

'Before you ask, Napoleon', Illya interposed, 'the _huasos _are cowboys who dress in traditional costume to take part in a kind of Chilean combination of bullfighting and rodeo. I would imagine that if he works for Fetting, he will be keen on the use of the stick and spurs in his work'.

'Well, make sure you don't get the wrong end of them then' Napoleon said.

The Santiago office had also discovered a weakness of Fetting's since he came to Chile, that they thought they could exploit. The Casino had become an irresistible draw for the pharmacist. Napoleon was surprised that he ventured outside the villa looking as he did, but a photograph included in the briefing papers indicated how.

The picture was taken at night, with the bright lights of the Casino acting as backdrop to the figures in the foreground. An attractive blond woman was posed for the camera, looking at another, taller figure by her side. He was unmistakeable, his shaved grey hair framing the shattered face; but with a profound difference. Over the destroyed part of his face he wore a black mask, shaped to fit expertly over the more grotesque features. There was a definite macabre, threatrical quality to the mask. Illya took the photograph and stared at it for a little while, then put it down, his face slightly paler than before. Napoleon could only imagine what he was thinking or remembering.

'Right', he said, trying to lift the rather sombre mood that had suddenly entered the room, we'll eat in to avoid drawing attention to ourselves, then Sabi and I will don our glad rags to go waylay the good Doctor, while you two. . .'

'Get on with the hard work' said Illya gloomily, 'as usual'. He got up, and started unpacking a large bag they had been supplied with by their colleagues in Section 4 at Santiago, containing a considerable amount of explosive charge, plus various wires, timers and other bits of equipment which Illya seemed happy to examine and load into a small backpack. Vaz and Sabi started to prepare a meal from the food provided, which seemed considerable. Napoleon got up and came over to where Illya was working, sitting on the floor with his back to the wall facing the Russian.

'O.K?' he said, trying to sound more cheerful than he felt.

'No, Napoleon, you know that I'm not OK and won't be until this mess is over for good. However, if you're worried that I will do something foolish, please put your mind at rest. I too want to return in one piece. After all', he added, 'I don't want to deny you the opportunity of dressing me up to the nines, after you and Jo have spent so much time on it all, do I? Napoleon grimaced. It would be a minor miracle if they could make him presentable on the day, he thought; they certainly didn't want to add any obvious injuries to the sartorial nightmare that was Illya Kuryakin.

'I'm sure it will all go well tonight, and that Jo and I will have ample opportunity to make you belle of the ball' he replied, an anxious smile playing on his lips.

Dinner proved to be an enjoyable affair, with the opportunity for them all to relax together before the evening's work began. Vaz was obviously a highly talented cook, and had produced a meal which combined the flavours of the Mediterranean with his own Portuguese and Asian cultural heritage. Napoleon noticed however, that Illya had eaten little and had only drank water, rather than the wine provided for them.

Napoleon and Illya were sharing a room at the front of the house, looking out on the harbour and the endless sea beyond it. After the meal they had showered and then changed. Their clothes were a stark contrast to each other, telling the story of their separate roles. Napoleon's evening dress spoke of the Casino, wealth, glamour, and the risk of gambling for high stakes; Illya had reverted to black, signalling danger of a very different kind. He silently handed a tin of black paste which Napoleon began to smear on the Russian's face, making the blue eyes appear even more brilliant against the dark complexion. When he had finished, they sat down on the beds, facing each other.

'I'll contact you when we're in place at the Casino. Make sure you leave enough time to get out, but don't hang about; you have a date to keep, remember', Napoleon said, putting on his shoes. Illya pulled on his holster, adjusting the belt of his trousers a notch. He should have felt hungry, but the thought of Fetting had made him sick inside. He grabbed his jacket and backpack before Napoleon could say anything further, and started to leave the room. As he got to the doorway, he heard Napoleon shout his name. He turned to see the American holding out a black cotton hat towards him.

'Don't want you to light up the evening sky, do we?' Napoleon said, handing it over. Illya shrugged, and pulled on the hat over his straggly grown-out hair.

Sabi was waiting for them in the lounge, wearing a deep blue silk evening dress. They made a handsome couple, certainly, Illya thought. _Bet he didn't mention this part of the assignment to Jo._

Vaz picked up the backpack, and carried it out, waiting at the side of the house for Illya to emerge. For once, he seemed subdued, his fine-featured face serious and silent. The other three came out shortly afterwards, Napoleon and Sabi heading for the car, and Illya joining Vaz for the trek to the Villa.

Napoleon stood at the car, watching them head up the hill, and then disappear into the darkness of the night.

'He will be careful, Napolina, and he has Vaz to keep him, how do you say 'on the straight and thin'?' whispered Sabi.

'Narrow', he replied, 'Straight and narrow'. He got into the car with Sabi beside him.

'Well' he sighed, 'let's make sure we keep Dr Fetting's attention duly diverted for as long as we can, eh?'.

xxxxxxxxx

Illya and Vaz turned off the road and stopped, dropping the bag between them. Illya's gaze took in the cliff's dark face and the lights of the Villa just visible at the summit. The road was illuminated by the occasional car's headlights going up or down, but, apart from this intermittent light, the darkness was absolute. Illya took a small torch out of the backpack, and gave another to Vaz.

'Only use this if you need to. We'll stop at the top before we enter the Villa' he said tersely, and without giving Vaz any time to comment, Illya picked up the backpack and set off up the hill at a fast pace, leaving Vaz running to catch him up.

The cliff was a mass of long, coarse grass, intersected by narrow paths, and overhung by large succulent plants and cacti, which assumed giant proportions in the light of distant car headlights. As Vaz plunged through the mass of undergrowth behind the slight figure of the Russian, he marvelled at his ability to move so silently and so quickly through such difficult terrain in almost total darkness. Kuryakin seemed to almost glide up the cliff side, even his breathing silent in comparison to the trampling sound of Vaz's boots on the narrow paths, and his increasingly ragged breathing.

As he had indicated, they paused at the top, Illya dropping the backpack, and checking his gun, while Vaz fought for his breath, bent double by the side of an overgrown path just below the boundary wall of the Villa. Illya sat down in the grass, pulling Vaz down next to him. The Russian didn't appear to be even breathing hard, Vaz noticed with amazement. Illya smiled.

'I've had a few weeks off, you know, so I put in a few hours at the gym' he said, rather self-effacingly. He leaned back in the grass, replacing his gun in the holster.

'Listen, Vaz' he continued, 'Watch for any guards; I can't imagine there are going to be many out here, but there may be someone patrolling the grounds with a suitably vicious canine companion. I'll attempt an entry into the lab and pick up anything interesting, before I place the explosives'. He pulled open a rough exterior plan of the building and pointed to a spot marked on it.

'Meet me at the end of the drive in thirty minutes. If I don't appear, contact Napoleon; do you understand?' Vaz looked at the emotionless face of his partner for the night.

'But Illya old man', he said slowly, 'I can't leave you there. Napoleon said . . .'

'Vaz, are you my partner, or my mother? Now, just do as I say, there's a fine fellow' Illya replied rather gently, seeing Vaz's face. Vaz's heart sunk. 'Yes, A.O.K old boy; will do' he replied.

'Right then. Thirty minutes; good luck'. And within seconds, he had vanished into the dark shapes surrounding the path.

xxxxxxxxxx

The Casino reminded Sabi of a giant children's toy building that little boys and girls might have in their bedrooms. She could almost imagine the front wall swinging round on hinges to reveal the rooms behind. It was painted a brilliant white and sparkled, star like, against the night sky around it.

Napoleon parked the car and escorted her up the steps. In the car he had changed his appearance slightly, just enough to suggest the character he was about to adopt in the Casino. She giggled slightly when he caught up with her at the bottom of the steps. He had greased the normally immaculate hair down in unflattering fashion, and had added an owlish pair of spectacles that gave him a rather eccentric appearance.

'Oh darling, you look positively _frightful!' _Sabi whispered, putting her arm through his.

'Flatterer' he smiled back. His expression changed as they entered the entrance hall of the Casino. 'He is there, at the roulette table' he murmured. 'Remember, Sabi, get his attention, but be very careful. He has met you before, however briefly. Now, let's see how much of a fool I can make of myself'.

xxxxxxxxx

Illya used the cover of the large shrubs which were planted along the drive to move unnoticed, he hoped, to a point where he could see the entrance door clearly. He hadn't seen any guards in the grounds, nor heard any sounds or sirens, so presumed that Vaz was free, and had dealt with them.

The door was in the same style as the entire house, a brutal combination of metal and glass in a modernist style. The lock had some sort of number code controlling it, which he regretted not having time to work out. Illya reached into the bag and pulled out a small amount of explosive and a fuse. He was slightly exposed getting to the door, and perturbed at the lack of an internal plan to the house, but, shrugging his shoulders involuntarily, he silently crossed the path to the door. Glancing round to check for any obvious visual surveillance, he slammed the explosive over the lock and attached the fuse. He pulled the tiny winder out of his watch and plunged it in again, resulting in a satisfying 'phut' and the door swinging gently ajar. He gave a last look round and slipped quietly through.

The monitor in the command room showed a dark form with blond hair walking quickly along the short corridor to the laboratory ahead. The guard lifted his hand to press the alarm, before another, larger hand closed upon it. Rodolfo shook his head at the guard. Picking up a large stick, he silently left the room.

xxxxxxx

'Oh please stop, Hiram darling, _pleeeese_' the blonde begged the American with the absurd round glasses.

'Ah will not, little darlin', Ah will not' he replied, in the most horrible drawl that positively murdered the English language, so Fetting thought. The woman, an outstanding specimen, was pleading with the idiot now, who obviously had no idea what he was doing, or even the rules of the game. As Fetting came nearer, the cretin was throwing chips all over the board and he could see the croupier was losing patience.

She suddenly met his gaze, embarrassment written all over her face like a message asking him to rescue her. He moved up behind her, and in German spoke in her ear,

'Do you need assistance, _fraülein_?' The American idiot seemed unaware of his presence and was now in open disagreement with the croupier, with the rest of the players open-mouthed, turning from one to the other, as if they were watching a tennis match taking place between them. She turned to him, nodding.

'_Ja, Ja, bitte, mein Herr' _she replied, her face showing fear and surprise at his appearance, but soon, he noted, softening a little into an interested gaze. He stared at her. She was indeed nearly perfect – a German or Austrian perhaps, very tall, with blue eyes of a deep hue that complemented the dress she was wearing. For some reason, presumably her colouring, he thought of Kuryakin. He wondered how many evenings he would have to wait before the Russian rat finally entered the trap, and the door was sprung shut. In thinking about him, he looked at the girl again. Something about her seemed familiar, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it might be.

He noticed that the dispute with the croupier had finally led to the American being escorted away by two security guards, screaming and bawling like a woman, as they frog-marched him from the room. The girl looked rather relieved at his absence, turning towards him expectantly.

'Would you like me to escort you to your hotel, fraülein?' Fetting enquired, looking at her, 'or what?'. She smiled, turning towards the tables. He noticed that she had quite a large number of chips in her hand.

'Oh, I don't think so, not yet', she replied smoothly. 'I think we should try our luck at the tables, don't you?'.

xxxxxxxxxx

Napoleon kept up his bawling protest until they had made sure he was escorted unceremoniously out of the building and dumped in the car park. He leaned back on the side of the car, taking off the glasses and trying to re-arrange his hair as he waited for a signal from Sabi.

It was a pity, he thought, that this job had put Illya at far greater risk than himself, but there was no real alternative; Fetting would instantly recognise Illya at the Casino, and he would be more able to select the right papers in the lab, if there were any. Kuryakin's skills with explosives were also legendary; in fact, Napoleon often thought he had a rather boyish fascination with them which verged on the dangerous. Goodness knows what he might get up to with Vaz in tow, an apprentice who was more than eager to learn from the magician.

As he waited, his communicator went off. It was Vaz. Solo's heart sank a little.

'Where are you and what's happened to Illya?' Solo said abruptly.

'I'm at the end of the drive, near the road' Vaz replied, rather breathlessly. He sounded nervous. 'We agreed to meet here and he told me to contact you if he didn't turn up. Well, he hasn't. I don't like it, Napoleon. I haven't found any guards patrolling the grounds; he definitely got in, because the door to the lab is ajar. He was very specific with instructions – told me not to follow'. Napoleon sighed.

'It sounds like they were expecting him. I need to speak to Sabi to find out if they've contacted Fetting. If he leaves in a hurry anytime soon, we can assume they've got Illya and are waiting for him to return. Stay there, and wait till I get to you. Solo out'.

As he finished speaking, he saw Fetting coming out of the Casino, Sabi draped on his arm. He got in the car, and waited until they had driven away before following.

xxxxxxxxxx

The laboratory looked as if it was in the process of being set up. Microscopes had been placed in a small area at the side, but the main area was equipped with apparatus for chemical and pharmaceutical experimentation. Beyond the lab, the door was open onto a small corridor. Illya pushed open the door and walked along the corridor, fleetingly thinking of his own lab, and his need to finish some of the work which he had left there in what felt like another life.

There were several doors in the corridor, probably leading to smaller labs or offices, he thought. He opened the first door. It was obviously Fetting's office; he could tell by some of the smaller objects in the room that he recognised from Fetting's room in East Germany. He forced himself to move forward and begin searching the room, but there was surprisingly little to find. With a sigh, he put down the bag, and started to remove some of the explosive. There seemed little point in continuing. When he had set the charges, he could contact Napoleon, and Fetting could be arrested. If he was honest, Illya was relieved that there would be no further confrontation with the Nazi pharmacist. He desperately needed to end this whole thing, and move on to another, better, chapter in his life.

He picked up the bag and turned, walking straight into a wall of a man.

'Señor Kuryakin, I hope you're not planning to use that on our beautiful Villa', Rodolfo asked in a mocking tone, simultaneously bringing the large stick he was carrying, hard onto Illya's shoulders. The force of the blow caused him to stumble, which was enough for the Chilean to bring the stick down again in a glancing blow on Illya's forehead. The guards standing in Rodolfo's shadow stepped forward to drag the inert body of the Russian agent towards the adjacent room. Rodolfo picked up the handset of the phone hanging on the wall of the corridor.

'_Buenas noches_. Can you inform Herr Dr Fetting that the package he was expecting has been delivered and we are making the necessary preparations? _Graçias_'.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Napoleon followed the silver Mercedes at a safe distance, checking that Fetting and Sabi were indeed returning to the Villa, as he had assumed they would be. He pulled in at a point on the road where he could see the gate, watch the car pull in, and crawl along the drive towards the house. He got out of the car and opened the boot, retrieving the clothes he'd stowed there. Adjusting his shoulder holster, he stuffed a silencer and cartridges in his pockets, before abandoning the car, and climbing the wall into the grounds of the Villa.

He could see Vaz crouching among the oleander bushes close to the gate; not wanting to risk injury by surprising the Indian agent, who was known in UNCLE for having reflexes approaching Kuryakin's, he gave a low whistle, instantly attracting Vaz's attention. Napoleon squatted down beside him, joining Vaz in gazing at the now well-lit villa.

'He arrived with Sabi about ten minutes ago, and they went round to the front of the Villa', Vaz whispered. Napoleon frowned.

'They're probably making small talk, while the friendly cowboys rough Illya up in there' he replied, pointing to the laboratory side of the villa. 'We need to get in there quickly, before Fetting starts in on Illya, otherwise there won't be much left of the bridegroom, and I'll be hung out to dry by the bride'.

Vaz grinned, his teeth flashing against the black backdrop of the night, and reached into the pockets of his jacket. With a flourish, he brought out a set of small explosive charges on a kind of connecting wire.

'Illya Kuryakin, old boy, eat your heart out' he said triumphantly. 'Now, those chappies in there might want to just pop out and see my firework display, eh?'

xxxxxxxxxxx

'So, darling, what sort of 'experiments' are you going to carry on in your little laboratory?' Sabi asked, her fingers tracing a line along the edge of Fetting's black mask. After an hour of roulette, where she had won and he had lost a great deal from what she saw, he had invited her back to the villa. He seemed fascinated by her, and it was comparatively easy to get him to begin to talk about his work. Inwardly, she was repelled by his appearance, but the memory of his treatment of Illya hardened her resolve.

'I would be delighted to tell you more about my work, _gnadige fraülein,' _he said, 'but I do have something I have to deal with before we can talk further, if you don't mind waiting. Do help yourself to a drink and admire the view'.

He strode out of the room and left her standing there, with the huge glass doors of the room folded back to allow her access to the terrace overlooking the ocean. As she sauntered towards the opening, she caught sight of a guard standing in the shadows at the end of the terrace, where the steps led down to the back of the house. They were obviously not taking any chances that Illya had come alone. She continued to wander onto the terrace with her glass, aimlessly gazing at the sea whilst fiddling with one of her earrings, until a familiar voice was heard in her ear.

'Having a cosy chat with the doctor, are we?' She smiled grimly, turning away slightly from the side where the guard was.

'Napoleon, he has left the room, I wasn't able to keep him here any longer. You must hurry now. You can get in on the terrace, but there's a guard on the right hand side, at the top of the steps'. There was a slight pause as she could imagine Napoleon's mind turning over the information.

'Could you just distract him a little for me? Vaz has something planned to flush out the other guards, but I need to get in first so we can find Illya'. She pursed her lips.

'Give me two minutes' she murmured sweetly into the sea.

xxxxxxxxxx

His left eye was difficult to open. Something was blocking it, sticking his eyelashes together. Something sticky. Illya realised that it was his congealed blood covering the part of his face where the stick had struck him. With his right eye, he looked round the room. It was covered from floor to ceiling with large, white tiles; round the edge of the room, there were a series of work surfaces made entirely of metal, upon which were laid in trays a series of surgical instruments. To complete the scene, the scales and a large metal trolley bed pushed to the side at the moment confirmed his fears that this was a post-mortem room, but with a difference. The difference being that he was secured by four clamps to the floor, his arms and legs splayed out in an x shape. Just below the top of his legs, he could feel the drain in the floor, which he hoped might not be draining any of his body fluids before the evening had ended.

They had stripped him completely, and placed him prone. He had no real idea of how long he had been there, or what had happened to the others. He gingerly pulled at the restraints, but the metal bit into his ankles and wrists painfully. He inwardly cursed, berating himself for being so stupid. Somehow the news of his survival must have reached Fetting, and he had waited for him to come.

It was difficult to breathe properly in this position, but he put his head to the undamaged side and took a few deep breaths. Strangely, he began to worry about the damage to his face. It was just his luck to sustain a facial injury at this moment. Now he would have to put up with them all going on about the state of his hair _and_ his face. Tess came flooding into his mind. She had never criticised his appearance or tried to make him change it.

He thought of their shopping expedition. Without realising it even, he had come back with a whole new wardrobe which he had chosen, with her standing by his side. He had been able to tell from her expressions what she was thinking; a slight frown or a smile seemed to be enough to guide him. For the first time in his life it had seemed a pleasurable activity. He almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of thinking about clothes in the position he was in now.

The door opened and he heard a strange clanking sound on the metal floor. As the sound came nearer, he could see why from his viewpoint. It was the sound of metal upon metal. Spurs clattering on metal.

CHAPTER 17

August

In the dim light of daybreak the dress had an ethereal quality, as it hung inside the glazed cabinet in the room. The heavy lace veil reminded her of dancing; watching Spanish dancers on hot evenings, of Spanish women in dark churches, praying. Therese lay in the terracotta room looking at the dress as the light gradually crept in, warming the room. Since Illya had left, she hadn't wanted to sleep upstairs on her own; it hadn't seemed right.

They had spoken only once since he had left, his voice sounding hard and tight at first. She hadn't asked him where he was or what he was doing, there was no point; but she knew that whatever he was doing, he needed to bring it to a conclusion before he could marry her.

After a while, he had relaxed, needing to tell her how much he loved her and missed her; promising her that he would come home safely. She put her hand on the bedside table, stroking the lock of hair laying there. Napoleon had given it to her during the time Illya had been in the medical unit. Touching it brought back painful memories of him lying in the bed, the ugly wounds on his head showing through the stubble of blond hair. She slid out and knelt by the side of the bed, adopting the position taught her as a child; comforted by it.

_Lord, bring him back whole to me. Give him peace of heart._

Xxxxxxx

Illya sighed. At least he could work out where Rodolfo was, from the clank of the absurd spurs on the floor. Much as he tried, he couldn't help but tense his body, readying it for what might come. However, for the moment, the Chilean had refrained from using the spurs to inflict damage on him. Rodolfo walked round past his head, towards his splayed-out legs. He could guess what was going to happen next. A well-aimed boot hit him between the top of his legs, luckily not involving the spurs. The intense and sudden pain of it, made him cry out, then exhale deeply, his teeth clenched together as the agony subsided.

'Please don't do that again; I intend to have several children after I have left here, and doing that doesn't help my chances of fatherhood' he muttered between clenched teeth. Rodolfo snorted.

'I can assure, you Señor, that the chances of your leaving this building alive, are, shall we say, highly unlikely' he said in a derogatory tone, at the same time, walking over to the side of the room. Illya couldn't see what he was doing, but he heard the slither of something being pulled off the counter, and then the unmistakeable crack of leather on the floor. 'So, if you don't like my boot', Rodolfo grunted, perhaps this might appeal to you'.

Before Illya could brace himself, Rodolfo brought the whip down and across his exposed skin, flicking it up again and bringing it down with a succession of quick movements that resulted in an orgy of bloody wheals across Illya's back and buttocks. His whole body quivered like an arrow, his head bent forward onto the floor with the effort of dealing with the shock and pain of the whip. The next crack brought the whip down over his shoulders, making him groan at the throbbing torture of the lashes on his body. His chest heaved in the effort to keep breathing, and he began to feel his resolve fading.

The last few months of his life flashed through his brain in a kaleidoscope of images and sounds; Therese on the street where he had first seen her; Fetting's molten face and the endless repetitive voices in his head replacing his personality with another man's; the coal-mine; its heat and noises and the accident; the roar of the explosion in the tiny shaft; then Therese again, her gentle face next to his, her tears; the scene in the medical centre; the anger and hatred in Carole's face as she tried to kill him; finally, finally, making love to Tess in his old apartment; her face, her kiss, her utter and consuming love for him. He needed to find strength now to endure this.

He cast back into his childhood for the memory, of what? The memory of a prayer. An image of women in scarves murmuring before Ikons came into his mind.

_Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me._

The steady repetition of the prayer inexplicably calmed him. His breathing slowed, and became less shuddering. He closed his eyes and turned his head to one side on the floor. He heard Rodolfo move to strike again, as the door opened.

'Stop now! That is enough, Rodolfo. We don't want to put Mr Kuryakin out of his misery too quickly, do we?'.

Xxxxxxxxxxx

Sabi had done a good job on the guard, and it was easy for Napoleon, with a quick chop to the neck, to render him unconscious. They retraced Sabi's steps towards the lounge, and then through the door that Fetting had left by. The door led to a foyer area, the stairs to the bedrooms leading off it on the left, and then more stairs directly ahead leading down to what they presumed was the laboratory area. Solo drew his gun and screwed on the silencer. He presumed that Sabi was armed, and fleetingly wondered just where she was hiding them.

'There must be a control room somewhere', Solo whispered, indicating the closed circuit cameras at the bottom of the stairs. Almost as if in response to his statement, two guards emerged from a door just beyond the staircase. Sabi put her hand to her lips, went down the stairs and round the corner. Napoleon could hear her voice, expressing mock surprise at being in the wrong place, and the guards' deeper voices in reply.

'Take her back to the lounge and I'll go down to help in the Autopsy suite. And hurry – Dr Fetting needs some lifting doing, and I can't do it on my own'.

Napoleon heard his step down the corridor. Sabi was engaging the other guard in conversation, so he didn't see the means of his death before it was upon him. They bundled the body into a closet off the foyer, and ran down the stairs to the command room. As Napoleon entered, he counted two more guards sitting, watching the television screens that sat on the counter facing them. He shot them both before they could get out of their seats.

'Nothing much on TV tonight' he commented, as he fired at the machine controlling the closed circuit system. The corridor led to a further short flight of steps. At the end of the lower corridor, they could see the large laboratory in darkness, but it was the voices coming from the room nearest to them that was of greatest interest. The door was slightly ajar and through it could be heard the unmistakeable harsh, grating tones of Fetting; and the other voice; quieter, hoarser, and a good deal slower, but easily recognisable. Napoleon crept forward, his hand reaching for the door.

'Napoleon' a strangled voice sounded behind him. He turned instantly. Sabi stood, the length of a long leather whip round her throat, with Rodolfo standing behind her. He began to yank on the whip, pinning her arms to her sides to prevent her from pulling it from her neck. He motioned to Solo to drop the gun.

xxxxxxxx

Fetting opened a locked cupboard on the wall, and removed a phial of colourless liquid and a syringe. He drew up the syringe and knelt down by Illya's side.

'I have no intention of taking any chances with you, my dear Mr Kuryakin' Fetting said. 'You seem to have more lives than the average cat, so this will make your movements a little bit slower than normal, if by any chance you try to leave. However, it will not give you any protection against pain'. He plunged the needle into Illya's upper arm and quickly injected the liquid. Illya felt his limbs grow heavy. His mind was clear and he could move as far as the restraints would allow, but his body seemed to have slipped into slow-motion mode.

As if to prove his point, Rodolfo removed the restraints. His legs felt as if they had been filled with concrete, and it was impossible for him to even attempt to move his arms to protect himself, never mind attack the giant Chilean. Rodolfo picked him up as if he were a child, and deposited him on the trolley, the pain of his back making him nearly scream as he was thrown down. There was no need to tie him down, he realised. He wasn't going anywhere in this state.

He closed his eyes for a few seconds just to recover from the shock of lying on his back. An unmistakeable smell jerked him into sight again. Fetting stood in front of him with a large metal can in his hand, slowly unscrewing the cap. He leaned over Illya menacingly and began to pour the liquid on his body. The Russian fought hard to make his limbs respond, but it was useless and it was wearing him out. He didn't need to imagine what might be coming next. Of course, this could be the only final solution to the problem of Kuryakin, that this madman could come up with.

He wondered where the others were. Had Vaz been captured after all; had the others? Were they still alive even? He looked round slowly; painfully. Rodolfo had left the room, but he could hear voices in the corridor. His questions were answered at least in part as Solo and Sabi were pushed into the room. Rodolfo had wrapped the whip round Sabi's throat, and was pointing Napoleon's gun at its owner.

Sabi gasped at the helpless and naked Russian agent on the trolley. His face and hair were still plastered with dried blood; fresh blood was oozing from his back. They could both see that he was covered in a slick of the petroleum liquid from the can Fetting held.

'Ah, your friends have joined us for your last moments on earth, Mr Kuryakin. How touching' Fetting said, putting down the can. Napoleon looked round the room. He noticed a fire hydrant in the corner. _Come on Vaz _he thought, _and make it good._

Fetting turned away momentarily. The room became still in anticipation of what was to come. A cracking noise and the familiar smell of burning told them. He turned round, a small blowtorch in his hand. He started to move towards the trolley, carrying the can in one hand, the blowtorch in the other.

'Now Mr Kuryakin, where shall we begin?' he said menacingly, waving the blow torch around Illya's head. Perhaps it should be your hair. You know, when scalps are burnt, the hair never grows back. But you know that, don't you?'. He turned as if in demonstration of the large red bald patches on his own head.

'Well I suppose I won't have to worry about my hair getting in my eyes any more' Illya said thickly.

Napoleon looked at his friend lying there. His eyes were open, the cold stare fixed on his face like glue. But Napoleon could tell the anguish underneath by the slight tremor in his hand. He thought back. Despite his fondness for explosives, he couldn't think of any occasion on which Illya had been really badly burned. He didn't want this to be the first, and last one. Luckily, Fetting was enjoying taunting Illya so much, he hadn't touched him yet. He was continuing to drone on, moving nearer to Illya's face now.

'Of course', he continued, 'I wonder what your little Spanish slut would do if you come back with half a face. It might almost be worth keeping you alive to let you experience the indignities of such a fate' he said venomously, his face almost eye to eye with Kuryakin's. 'But I'm sorry; I don't feel as generous towards you as that'.

As he finished speaking, he began to bring the blow torch nearer to Illya's face. Illya felt the heat as it approached him. He closed his eyes and forced his head to one side just as an almighty shuddering noise hit the side of the building like a giant wave. Instantly the alarms in the building began to go off, as the sky was lit up with what looked like a giant firework display.

Rodolfo's attention was momentarily riveted by the noise, enough for Napoleon to grab the gun from him and fire. The bullets hit their target. Rodolfo lay motionless on the metal floor, the spurs spinning aimlessly. The can burst into flames, connecting with the blowtorch through the body of Fetting. Napoleon lunged towards the trolley and sent it skidding across the room. He looked up to see Sabi covering Illya with the contents of the fire hydrant, the Russian choking in the sea of foam he appeared to be floating in.

As they pushed the trolley out of the room, they heard a hideous scream reverberate on the ceramic walls behind them. They turned to see Fetting. He was moving round the room in a kind of macabre dance, his whole body alight. At last, still burning, he fell to the floor. Napoleon shut the door and went into the adjacent room, returning with a sheet, with which he covered Illya. At that moment, they heard a clattering on the stairs. Sabi plunged her hand into the cleavage of her dress and withdrew a short, thin knife.

'Tally Ho chaps, only me! Enjoy the firework display did we?'.

Xxxxxxxxx

The intense fire in the Autopsy suite soon found its natural course to the rest of the building. Napoleon yanked Illya off the trolley and carried him over his shoulder out of the entrance that the Russian had so conveniently blown open earlier that evening, Napoleon thought. It was superfluous to call for any help; the effect of Vaz's night entertainment was such that a phalanx of vehicles was rapidly heading their way, including, to their relief, an ambulance.

Sabi had indicated the extent of Illya's injuries to Napoleon, but his main concern had been to exit the building and get as far away as possible before the inevitable explosion happened. Illya's bag of explosives, left in the adjoining room, had contributed to the fireball that now engulfed the villa. He could feel the pain of his partner as he carried him, by the tenseness of his body, but there was little he could do to alleviate it. He was profoundly grateful when the ambulance trolley was pushed alongside him, and Illya was gently laid on it and given some analgesia.

Napoleon and Vaz followed the ambulance in the car, the sky lit up behind them with a fiery halo of light and flame. Sabi insisted in accompanying Illya in the ambulance, 'just to keep an eye on him darling'. Solo's communicator bleeped.

'Ah, Mr Solo, anything to report?' Waverly asked.

'Yes sir, the objectives have been met, although there was nothing in the laboratory of note. It appears that it was only in the process of being set up.'

'Any injuries sustained?'. Solo hesitated. For some reason, he had the impression that there was someone with Waverly.

'I'm afraid that Mr Kuryakin was captured by Fetting, and subjected to some torture by his so-called manservant. We managed to stop Fetting from inflicting further injuries, sir.'

'And Fetting? Is he in custody?'

'I'm afraid not, sir. I had to take measures to prevent him from killing Illya'.

'And what were you doing, soft lad, when Goldilocks was getting the roughing up?'. Napoleon nearly dropped the communicator. For the second time in his life, he was rendered speechless.

'Jo?' he gasped incredulously. There was the familiar laugh at the other end.

'Don't sound so shocked, lover. And get used to it – you'll be hearing a lot more from me through your little pen'. Before he could sort out in his head what was going on, Waverly's voice interrupted his thoughts.

'Yes, Mr Solo, Miss McCaffery has very kindly agreed to take over as head of our legal department. We're very lucky to have persuaded her to come over from the UN, and, of course, I don't need to tell you about her personal qualities, do I?'. Napoleon sat back, stunned. Sabi and Vaz were staring at him.

'No, I mean yes, sir' he mumbled.

'Good. Well in that case you will be pleased to know that as there is a potentially tricky legal situation over your presence in Chile, Miss McCaffery is flying out to Santiago today, and I believe, her sister will be accompanying her'.

'So you'd better make sure Goldilocks gets the right treatment, otherwise I'll be giving you the right treatment; understand, spy-boy?'.

'Absolutely. Looking forward to it, my legal eagle. Solo out'. Napoleon closed his communicator and put it away. He couldn't wait.

Xxxxxxxxx

A brilliant glow swam before Illya's eyes before gradually focusing into the all-too familiar shape of a hospital examination light. With the sharpening of his vision came the intensification of the pain from his back, and he bit his lip at the sharpness of it. There seemed to be a room full of medical personnel; hands were all over him. With a shudder, his memory of what had happened returned.

But he couldn't quite remember. Was the pain just from his back, or was he disfigured in other ways? He smelt the petrol on his body, could feel the stiffness of the dried blood on his face, and a shooting pain coming from his forehead. He struggled to move his arms to touch his face and head. But someone was holding him back, preventing him from finding out. He began to struggle against the hands, lashing out, forcing his legs to move, hearing the commotion begin, until a sharp prick sent him back to the darkness of his fears.

Xxxxxxxxx

'Mr Solo?' The doctor shook Napoleon's hand warmly, and pointed to a nearby couch in the lounge outside Illya's room. Napoleon had glanced into the room and seen them all working on the slight body on the bed. He noticed how still the Russian was.

'Is he sedated?' he asked.

'We had to' the doctor replied, glancing at the room. 'He became very restless when we were attempting to examine him; you know he's very strong for a man of his size'. Napoleon nodded. He was slightly perturbed that Illya, whose hatred of all things medical was well known, but who usually submitted with icy resolve, should behave in this way. 'Can you tell me what happened at all?' the doctor continued; 'his injuries are unpleasant, but not life-threatening; however, he seemed to be trying to touch his face and head'. Napoleon looked down.

'He had a very traumatic experience, Doctor, which I think led him to behave like that. But don't worry, help is at hand'.

Xxxxxxxxx

He was lying prone on the bed; his back was covered in dressings, with a thin white sheet loosely draped on top. She noticed that his hair was wet; when she touched his shoulders they felt slightly damp too, as if he had been scrubbed. His hair had been combed right back from his forehead to reveal a long plaster which she presumed hid the cut from an injury. She kneeled by the side of the bed and rubbed her face against his cheek.

'_Mi primer amor'_ she murmured in his ear, '_te amo, amado'_. He stirred, his eyes opening slowly. She saw the fear and pain in them instantly. 'Illyusha' she said firmly, 'your face is just as I left it, so stop making a fuss, silly boy'. She got hold of his hand and put it to his face. He grabbed hold of her neck, and pulled her towards him, breathing her in deeply, as if this were the first breath of his life.

'He is gone, Teresita' he said quietly. 'But I . .I thought . .'

'That you were disfigured by the fire? That I wouldn't love you if you were? '. She stroked the wet hair, bringing it back across his face. She sighed, smiling at his expression. 'I can see we're going to have to spend a lot more time getting to know each other intimately' she whispered.

'Please'.

Xxxxxxxxx

Napoleon saw her before she saw him. He thought this must be a first. She had her back to him, talking to the UNCLE agent sent from the Santiago office, in the spacious lounge outside Illya's room. As the agent moved away, he seized his chance.

'Want to hang me up now, or later?' he whispered in her ear. She turned, a classic Jo expression on her face, he thought. She seemed unaware or unbothered by anyone who might be near. She grabbed him, bringing his face close to hers, brown and violet eyes looking into each other.

'I never wait till later' she replied. She began to kiss him, her lips and tongue exploring him as if it was the first time. It always felt like that with her, he thought. After a while, he became aware that someone else was standing there. He reluctantly extricated himself from Jo's arms and turned round. Sabi and Vaz were standing there, heads on the side, as if they were giving him marks for performance. They were.

'I'd say about a nine' Vaz ventured, a wry grin growing on his face.

'_Nein_, darling, at least ten I would say' Sabi answered. She walked over and kissed Jo, putting her arm through Napoleon's. 'This is lovely!' she said enthusiastically, as they walked towards the side room. 'All my boys are happy now!'.

Xxxxxx

'A week! Why?'.

Illya sat on the side of his bed, his eyes swivelling from side to side. Therese thought he looked as if he were about to make a run for it, if he could have made it to the wardrobe before the nurse did. Dr Peter McDonald's huge frame towered over him, not that it seemed to make the slightest difference to his enraged expression, Thérèse thought.

'Because, laddie, you have come back with a list of injuries as long as a sheep's intestine, and that includes another bang on the head for good measure', Peter replied, trying to look other than amused at the furious Russian glaring at him. Thérèse willed Illya to look at her, and eventually he turned his head in her direction. She pursed her lips and fixed him with her eyes. He looked back at the doctor.

'O.K' he said, more calmly. 'Only no sedation and I'm allowed something to read or write for at least part of the day. Please?'. He looked back at Thérèse rather penitently she thought, and she smiled. He really was a nightmare in these places, she concluded.

After Peter had gone, Thérèse came over to the bed. He took one look at her and swung his legs up on the bed, pulling the sheets back over him.

'Turn over, awkward' she told him, undoing the tie at the back of his gown. He glanced at her quizzically, and then obediently turned, as she pulled the pillows off the bed. She ran her hand over the livid red marks on his back. They had begun to heal, but still looked sore and angry looking. From her bag, she took a jar of green creamy ointment, which she began to smooth on his back in a rhythmic motion, her face close to his head.

'I hope I'm not going to spend too much of my married life finding you in bed in this state' she whispered, nibbling his ear.

'Hmm' Illya murmured, enjoying the touch of her hands. ' Well, I'll try to be in a better state when you next visit my bed' he replied. When she had finished, she rolled him back and pulled him towards her, tying the gown on again.

'Illyusha listen' she said, as he tried to kiss her. 'I need to tell you things about the wedding'.

'Oh that' he muttered, again trying to kiss her. She grabbed the pillows and shoved them behind him, pushing him against them.

'Now stop it and listen! I can see your latest bang on the head hasn't made you any better behaved'. He smiled, coyly, she thought, and made another grab for her. 'Right, you behave, Kuryakin, or I get Peter in here with a large dose of tranquiliser' , Thérèse answered, trying hard not to laugh at the look of horror the idea produced on his face. He lay back on the pillows, looking more relaxed than she had seen him virtually since the first time they had met.

'Now' she continued, 'there is a slight difficulty in you coming back home before the wedding'. His eyes narrowed and she could almost see his brain ticking over.

'And why might that be?' he asked, stroking her arm.

'Um, well, my family, or rather, the Irish side of my family have arrived, and they're sort of giving us their wedding presents at the moment'. Therese almost burst out laughing at his expression, or was it incomprehension of what she was trying to tell him. She tried again. 'You see, my father comes from a big family. Although he is a Professor of Music, the rest of the family, well they're in a different line of business'. She realised she was beginning to sound as Irish as her family, from the expression on his face. She laughed. 'I'm sorry, the fact is that they're all builders and the such like, so they're all, well, working on the house and garden at the moment. It's like a bomb site'.

'And why am I not allowed to live at the bomb site, pray?' he said, smiling at her explanation. He had guessed what was coming. She winced slightly.

'You know why. My mother has arrived and, well, you can imagine' she said, her eyes downcast. Illya looked at her lovingly. She was still so reserved at times, so gentle. He couldn't quite grasp how he had managed to find her and why he was so fortunate. He smiled encouragingly at her.

'Let me guess' he said, smiling, 'for the next two weeks after I leave this place of so called healing, I will be staying at Napoleon's apartment'. She grinned and nodded to him, stroking his hair, unconsciously trying to smooth it down round his ears. 'Of course, you know what this means, or did you plan it this way?' he said.

'What?'

'This means that for the next two weeks I will be subjected to the machinations of that man, ably assisted by your sister, while he attempts to turn me into someone whom you will struggle to recognise when you come down the aisle at St Clare's'.

'Oh, I'll recognise him all right' she murmured.

He tipped back the sheets, and walked, rather unsteadily, to the doorway and pressed a series of buttons on the side of the wall. The door instantly slid across with a soft hiss.

'What have you done? Thérèse asked, her eyes narrowing at his expression.

'Never mind. Come here' he told her, pulling her towards him. Seeing her expression, he continued quietly 'don't worry, nobody can get in now, but I know you don't have happy memories of this place. I just wanted to, well, be close to you you for a while'. Thérèse smiled, and sat on the edge of the bed, pulling off her tee shirt and letting her flip flops drop to the floor with a dull thud. She shrugged, slipped off her jeans, and allowed him to lay her down, while he began to caress her breasts and between her legs.

'You'd better make the most of it, _amado, _she murmured in his ear.

Afterwards, they lay on the bed together, Illya running his mouth across her breasts, and sucking her nipples, his eyes closed in contentment.

'They seem different' he said, looking up at Thérèse, as she lay next to him, her hand idly running through his pubic hair. She blushed slightly, he noticed.

'Do they?' she said. He pulled himself up, running his fingers down the blue veins he could clearly see extending towards the dark nipples. He looked closely at her. She was definitely hiding something, he could see the eyes were turned away slightly. He gently pulled her averted face towards his.

'Tessy? Is something wrong?' he asked, trying to read her breathing and expression.

'No, not exactly wrong. Just unexpected' she replied quietly. The room seemed suddenly very peaceful, without the usual ticking and crashing noises he always associated with medical units. He gazed at her, waiting for clarification. There was a quietness between them, then she spoke.

'Illyusha, I am. . .' He put his arms round her shoulders.

'You are pregnant', yes? I thought so'. _I hoped so_, he thought happily.

Xxxxxxxxx

Napoleon shut the door of the apartment quietly and sauntered down the corridor towards the lounge. From the doorway, he could see Jo working, legal papers all over the dining table, yellow legal pads stacked up neatly at her side. As he leaned across to kiss her, she put her finger to her lips and pointed towards the sofa. Illya lay fast asleep, his arm hanging down, and his face turned to the side, revealing the fading scar from Rodolfo's attack, running neatly along his hairline. Napoleon smiled at him. He looked remarkably relaxed, he thought, although he still followed the usual ritual of not waking him up too suddenly.

He took her hand and led her into their bedroom. She stood by the window, the sun bringing out the red tones of her hair, the usual expression of amusement and bloody-mindedness on her face.

'What is it? I need to finish this brief, otherwise our boss will wonder why your colleagues are still stuck in Yugoslavia next week' she said, taking off her suit jacket and hanging it in the closet. He took the little box out of his jacket pocket and cleared his throat momentarily, enough to cause her to turn round. 'Go on then' she said, 'down on one knee'.

'Why is it,' he replied, 'you always know what I'm going to do'. She came across the room and pushed him down.

'Kneel' she ordered, leaning over him provocatively, her hands on his shoulders and he got down in front of her.

'Anything for a quiet life' he muttered. 'Maria Josefina Isabella McCaffery, will you do me the greatest honour of becoming my wife?'. She looked at him for a few moments.

'Depends what the ring is like' she said; laughing when she saw his astonished expression. 'Go on then, you divvy, I suppose you'll do'. She lifted him up to stand face to face with her and Napoleon opened the box. The ring sparkled in the sun of the room, the sapphire stone sitting snugly in its little frame of diamonds. As she put it on, she noticed the other box on the bed, slightly larger, but from the same jeweller. She opened it. Inside were two rings; one larger than the other, but of the same design. Each ring was really three, wound round each other to make one.

'Russian wedding rings!' she exclaimed, holding the smaller one gently in her hand.

'Glad you like them' a voice said quietly from behind them. 'Thank you Napoleon for collecting them for me'. Illya stood there, looking at them curiously. His hair was a desperate mess all over his head, and his eyes were still blinking from waking up. He came up to them, noticing the other ring box thrown down.

'Are congratulations in order?' he asked, looking from one to the other. He gave them a very un-Illya like beaming smile, kissing Jo and trying to look interested in the ring. '_What's got into him?' _Napoleon thought, '_He's very pleased about something, and I don't think it's us'. _ Jo stared at him.

'Have you looked at yourself in a mirror lately?' she asked him, shaking her head. 'You do realise you have precisely one day before you marry my sister, and that you still look like a, a, a _scarecrow_!' she shouted.

'Plenty of time' Illya replied, smiling.

xxxxxxxx

The sun was fighting the blinds, begging to come into the room and announce its presence. Shafts of sunlight played across his face, making him turn away and pull the sheet over his head. Finally, Illya sat up and looked at his watch. 6.00 am. He slid out of bed and walked down the corridor into the bathroom. Grabbing his shaving things, he stared at himself in the mirror. He began to smile.

The apartment was quiet when he left, his running shoes making little sound on the stairs as he slipped down the flights towards the ground floor. Yesterday, he had been dragged into the commissary by Napoleon for 'a little send-off' as he had called it. They were all there, his colleagues, even Waverly; the medical staff, and all the girls from the various offices had turned up. Someone had rigged up a series of bunting strewn across the room, with various messages attached like flags to it, mainly expressing variations on the 'we never thought you'd do it' line. To his horror, in the middle of the room, above a lovely cake someone had brought in, was a very large blown up version of the photograph his mother had shown Napoleon in the plane coming back from the Ukraine. Illya had cringed. Still, the cake was very nice.

Peter McDonald had pulled him aside when they were all busy talking. His mother had visited him whilst he was in the medical unit, telling him about her new job at the children's hospital in New York. He could see how happy she looked, but the memory of what McDonald had hinted raised rather different feelings in him.

'Um, your mama thinks I should speak to you' McDonald said, rather hesitantly.

'About what?' Illya replied. As if he didn't know. He decided to put him out of his agony. 'If it's my permission you want, you are both adults and you hardly need it' he said, 'but I can see you make her happy, so who am I to stand in your way?'. McDonald grinned, and slapped Illya on the back, instantly realising what he had done when the Russian winced.

'One thing' Illya continued. 'I don't have to call you Dad do I?'.

Xxxxxxxxx

He ran on until he got to Del Floria's entrance, running down the steps and through the door without stopping. Del was in the shop, even at this early hour, and, barely looking up, he ushered him through.

Billie-May gasped in reception, but then she always did that when he came near her. He ran to the lifts and then went up to the labs. His lab was empty. He walked in and sat down at the bench, fingering his notebooks with fondness. He had managed to clear some of the backlog in the last two weeks, and the place now looked tidy, as if it would be happy to wait for his return in a few weeks. He touched the familiar workbench, and then left.

The office was also quiet, only a few staff on duty at this hour, all of whom gave him strange looks as he passed through. He walked into their office. Napoleon's desk as usual; crowded, chaotic, the antithesis of the man. His own more ordered. He had spent a long time writing up a report of the whole affair from the beginning, and it had been a painful experience. He had passed it silently to Napoleon, who sat opposite him reading it, looking at him every now and then. Now it was done, passed to their new secretary, and the chapter was closed. For now.

He left the office and came out of the building through the back entrance, running away from the UNCLE offices across the intersection with 5th and eventually along West 41st street, knowing where he was heading. He slowed down to a walking pace, and finally stopped. He could run no longer.

Illya looked into the window of the same place he had stood with Napoleon and Jo weeks beforehand. A girl was right in the window, appearing to signal to him. He shrugged his shoulders imperceptibly and went in.

He vaguely remembered seeing her ages ago on some occasion when Napoleon had cajoled him, or more commonly, Waverly had ordered him to come to this place. He saw Frank, the owner, an Italian barber with the attitude of a rottweiler dog, raise his eyes heavenward and utter some oath in Italian. Illya's lips set themselves in a thin line across his face.

'Come on'. The girl was dragging him away from the others, who, to a man, barbers and customers, were staring at the Russian. She was unlike any other barber he'd ever seen in his life. She was quite tall, with lustrous black hair stuck in a fat pony tail right on top of her head. Long, dangling earrings hung from her ears, and a wide leather belt was slung round the hips of her tight black trousers like a western gunslinger. He remembered her now. Frank's daughter, grown up.

'It's Francesca, isn't it?' he asked, as she pushed him into the chair and covered him with an ample cloth.

'Right on, Mr Kuryakin, but call me Frankie' she replied, grinning at him, her earrings swinging round her face.

'You remember me, then?'

'Oh yeah! You came in here once when I was a kid, and you had _really_ long hair – papa went really _ape_ at you, remember?'

He remembered alright. It was when he hadn't been in New York long. He had been sent on an undercover assignment for months, with a biker gang in California. It had been difficult to discover the extent of THRUSH infiltration of the gang for the purposes of communication along the whole west coast, but it had also been a thrilling time for him and so different to anything he had done before. It had been hard to gain acceptance into the gang 'family', but they had eventually adopted him as one of their own, and he still had the mercifully small tattoo they had insisted on giving him on an evening he preferred to forget.

He had returned to New York with a thick blond mane of hair down his back. But not for long. Waverly had let him write the report, and then after Illya had delivered it, he had simply said 'and call in at Frank's on your way home, won't you?' with a withering look that left Illya in no doubt of his opinion. Frank had been merciless.

'Geez, who did your hair last?' she was saying, running her comb through the tangle of blond.

'Ouch. Um, that would probably be a theatre technician in the neurosurgery unit' he replied, smiling, 'they don't have many styles'.

'Oh I'm so sorry!' she exclaimed, her eyes wide. 'What a bummer! I bet you were _hacked_ when you woke up to see that!' Frank had come over from the other side of the shop.

'Don't take any nonsense from him. People like him will be the death of the traditional barber, take it from me'. Frankie started to push him away, glaring at her father over the top of Illya's head. Frank shook his head in disbelief at the state of Illya's hair. 'He needs to lose the hippy look today of all days' he said, looking fiercely at the head beneath him. Illya could feel him itching to attack.

'Back off, papa, he's mine' Francesca almost shouted, wrapping her arm round Illya's head. Frank retreated. She smiled at Illya. 'What's happening today, then?' she asked, picking up the scissors off the counter.

'I'm getting married'. She almost danced round him. 'That is so cool!' she said, laying her hands on his shoulders. 'Is she as cute as you?'

'Oh, she is really _far out'_ he replied. He noticed a notebook on the counter, next to her hairdressing impedimenta. He recognised the writing. She saw him looking, and grabbed it to show him.

'I don't work here all the time – Geez, who'd want to? I want to go to Med School next year, but my Math is not so hot' she said excitedly. 'You dig this stuff?'. He took the notebook, gazing at the equations written in her scratchy writing.

'I dig it' he said. 'Hmm, this is OK but you could do with some extra tuition if you want to make the grade for Medical School. I could help you with it, if you go gently on me. Deal?'. Frankie grinned.

'Deal!' she said.

Xxxxxxxxx

'Where is he? Don't tell me he's done a runner!' Vaz said, as he put the coffee cup down on Napoleon's kitchen table. Napoleon looked at his watch and smiled. He hadn't spent the last few years virtually living with the man not to know exactly what he was up to now. _He'll be doing the tour, working himself up to it _he thought.

'I estimate that he should be, just about . . .' the sound of a key turning the lock interrupted the sentence. 'here now' finished Napoleon, smiling as the Russian entered the room. He had obviously been running; sweat was pouring down his face and his t-shirt was stuck to his body.

'Very neat' Napoleon said. 'Frankie and you got on OK?'. Illya stared at him.

'How did you . . .?' He shrugged, and wandered off towards the bathroom. Napoleon turned to Vaz.

'He shall go to the ball' he said, grinning.

Xxxxxxxxx

St Clare's Church was hidden away from the street by a cloistered garden, which was bordered on one side by the Church, and on the other by the large hall, the side doors of which opened onto it in the summer months. Illya could hear the commotion going on the hall as he walked through the garden to the church. What seemed like hundreds of women were milling round tables laden with food, others running in and out of the kitchen, adding to the banquet. It looked good.

Thérèse had allowed him to look round their house and garden a few days before; it was stunning, he thought. The great gang of relatives had given them a beautiful present – the gift of their time and talents in the transformation of the house from two separate living spaces to one home. They had even been hard at work in the garden, laying out the different areas, and obliterating the mayhem that had resulted from the fatal explosion by the wall.

Thérèse had led him upstairs where they looked from room to room like children with a new toy. Illya's living room had been easily transformed into their bedroom, with the old display cabinet hauled upstairs to the place from where he had seen her for the first time a lifetime ago. Adjoining their bedroom by a little door there was a small room, painted a delicate shade of green. There was no furniture in here yet. They looked at each other.

'You haven't told anybody yet, have you?' she said anxiously.

'I'm an expert in keeping secrets' he murmured in her ear.

The choir from his mother's church had arrived and were standing in the nave of the church, chatting to each other and to Gabi, while Illya and Napoleon sat at the front, Napoleon talking with Vaz and Mark. Illya frowned momentarily. The thought of being on show like this made him shudder. Napoleon had spent what seemed like hours watching him as he dressed; inspecting every detail of his clothing. Now they were all looking at him. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned. His mother leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

'Illyusha, I am so proud of you," she whispered, tears shining in her eyes. 'Now make sure you look after Thérèse and your family'. He blushed under her approving smile. Peter stood next to her, his arm on her shoulder. Illya looked at them both and sighed. _Somehow she knows,_ he thought.

Napoleon nudged him, making him jump. He stepped out into the aisle and turned back, conscious of the sea of faces, alarmed by them until he saw her. The woman standing there seemed a world away from the guitar swinging girl he had first seen swinging down the street. Her delicate silk dress was set off by the heavy lace veil she wore over her head. Her hair was put up in a way he thought made her look grown up, and very Mediterranean, like one of those images of women parading in religious processions. Then she smiled at him, her eyes flashing topaz like.

He could see Jo and Sabi walking behind her, in the European fashion of following the bride. When she reached his side, he took her hand, waiting for the priest from his mother's church to lead them round the altar. His mother had told Thérèse about the ceremony of the crowns in orthodox weddings, and she had insisted. As Napoleon and Jo held the crowns above their heads while they circled the altar with the priest, he could hear her voice, explaining the significance. _The crowns are a symbol of the martyrs. So, in marriage, one dies to one's own self and starts again in a new life together._ He stepped forward.

Xxxxxxxxx

The reception matched the wedding in terms of intensity, but of a different kind. Somehow, to Illya's dismay, a number of Ukrainian customs had managed to infiltrate themselves into the proceedings, including the raucous shouting out of '_Gorka, gorka, gorka_ (kiss her) which he was obliged to do in front of them all, to riotous applause, and then the presentation and putting on of a pair of boots to his mother-in-law, as a sign that he would look after her. His wife was so like her mother, it was like seeing Tess as she would be in the future. Marisa McCaffery had the same beautiful eyes and hair, but her character was pure Jo.

'Kneel' she said, forcing him to get down on his knees in front of her. She bent down and whispered to him 'be good to her or else' in a darkly mysterious, slightly threatening voice that made him frown before he saw she was laughing at his expression. Tess thought that it was all tremendously fun, including the part when her veil was taken off, and substituted with a Ukrainian woman's headscarf, which she insisted on wearing for some time during the evening. He looked despairingly at her.

'You know what this means?' he whispered to her.

'What?'

'You are now a housewife to do with as I think fit'. She leaned towards him, whispering in his ear,

'I'll see you upstairs in the house later then, and you can do with me as you think fit; not that you haven't already done that, papa'. He smiled contentedly.

'Quite'.

The dancing reached epic levels of raucousness and energy, egged on by the enthusiastic and passionate playing of the Irish band. At various points in the evening, Illya was conscious of people he knew whirling past, shouting and laughing, or himself being whirled along by various people including many women who claimed to be his relatives now.

Sabi sat at a table with Marina, Peter and Dorothy Waverly. She had thrown herself into the dancing with great enthusiasm, dragging Vaz and other men round and round the dance floor, but eventually their energy flagged and she threw herself onto the nearest chair.

'They make a lovely couple; you must be very proud, dear' Dorothy Waverly said to Marina, at the same time glancing round to see where on earth Alex had got to. She eventually saw him, deep in conversation with Val McCaffery; probably reminiscing about the war.

'Yes, they seem perfectly suited' Marina replied, smiling.

'I was rather hoping that she would meet someone like him' Dorothy continued. 'She's a special sort of person, I would say, and, of course my dear, so is he'. Marina nodded.

'Yes, but I would say that, wouldn't I? However, I know how awkward he can be, pig-headed even, like his father; but he will be a good husband and a very good . .'

'A good father? Oh yes, and sooner, rather than later, I would say, wouldn't you?'. She smiled knowingly at Marina. 'Just watch their body language, my dear. He's already looking out for both of them, isn't he?'.

Xxxxxxxxx

The image of Kat came into Sabi's mind. Napoleon leaned over, whispering, or more like shouting in her ear above the din,

'She would have loved this, don't you think?'. She nodded, her eyes filling with tears. She got up and hugged him.

'Thank you for remembering her with me' she replied. She could see beyond the back of Napoleon's head to a view of the street beyond the garden. The dark shape of a car had drawn up, and a figure had got out, and was standing in the street, looking into the garden. Something about the shape of the woman's head, for it was a woman, reminded her of someone. She stiffened, pulling away from Napoleon, and walking quickly towards the opening. The woman had seen her coming and had made for the car, turning slightly as she got in, to look at Sabi. Then the car was gone.

Napoleon ran up behind her, and she turned to face him, ashen.

'Who was that? Did you recognise him?' he asked. She looked at him, trying to understand it herself.

'It wasn't a 'him', although it's easy to make that mistake. It was a 'her'. What I want to know is, what was Dr Winnifred Engel doing here?'

Xxxxxxx

It was quite easy for them to slip away to the house without a big fuss; the party had no intention of stopping just because they weren't there. They held hands and walked through the streets until their house stood before them, the light in the entrance hall faintly welcoming them in.

Illya reached into his pocket for the key and unlocked the door. Tess was surprised that, considering they were her relatives, and not known for their tact or diplomacy, her family had decamped to various other apartments, or were just going to stay the night at the party.

He led her up the stairs, and into the bedroom. They sat on the bed, Illya flinging himself upon it and kicking his shoes off, as if he was not used to wearing anything on his feet normally. He lay there with his eyes shut, pulling off his tie and opening the top button of his shirt as if it was choking him.

Tess started laughing.

'Oh honestly, it wasn't that bad was it? You looked super-cute in your get-up; everyone said so. And I haven't even had the chance to say how very elegant your haircut is!' she teased, knowing the reaction it would provoke. He breathed in deeply.

'My barber says I have beautiful hair and I should let it grow longer' he replied, slightly opening his eyes.

'Oh really. Well next time you get dragged in there, tell him I agree with him' she said, mockingly.

'Tell her'.

'Oh for goodness sake! Trust you'.

When he opened his eyes fully, she was standing there, naked, the dress draped on the little sofa behind her. Her hair was still up in the elaborate style she had worn for the wedding.

'Come here, Mrs Kuryakin' he said, and pulled her towards him on the bed.

'Er, not yet, Mr Kuryakin. I need to perform the wifely duty of getting you ready for bed' she said, a slight smirk on her face. She stood him up beside her, and started to take off his clothes, kissing the areas of his body which were revealed until he stood there as naked as she was. He lifted her up, her legs straddling his, and then tumbled onto the bed with her, fiercely kissing her face and breasts. She pushed him onto his back, now mercifully able to withstand the pressure, and immersed her face into his genitals, kissing and stroking him until he thought he would explode. He pushed her over in turn, his lips and tongue kissing her and stroking her until she groaned with the pleasure of his touch. He entered her, delighting in the fusion of their bodies. He felt immensely strong, and elated; finally he climaxed with a massive groan of pure pleasure, collapsing onto her, and continuing to lie inside her for a long, delicious, time. Therese rolled him back, and continued to gnaw at his ear, stroking his hair, murmuring and whimpering softly.

Xxxxxxx

The morning came too quickly, he thought, gazing at her. For a few moments on waking, he couldn't quite think where he was. Then reality dawned. He was here, in their house, with his wife, and yes, with his baby. He looked across at her. Her hair was completely bedraggled, the elaborate hairstyle dismantled by their lovemaking. He rolled her over and started taking the pins out of her hair, trying to smooth it out with his fingers. She rolled over and kissed him, then rolled back while he continued to pull out the pins, one by one.

'


End file.
